January Thaw
by Brighid45
Summary: The fourth story in the Treatment series. House is, well, housebound at Gene and Sarah's place. It's a new year-will he work on his issues? AU to S6. Angst, humor, some OC romance on the way. Please R&R, thanks!
1. Chapter 1

_**A/N: okay, here's the first chapter of the new story. Hope you enjoy it. This is pretty much a fluffy start, but there will be angst in the future, no worries. :)**_

_**I may be a bit slower in posting than planned, mainly because we do not have heat or hot water in our apartment house and won't have any for the foreseeable future, as our furnace is completely shot and our absentee dickweed of a landlord has to replace it. Of course this happened during the coldest week of winter so far! Anyway, the corner where the computer sits is farthest away from both the oven and the space heater, our two main sources of heat downstairs at the moment. I'll write when it's warm enough and post when possible. Let's hear it for winter, woohoo! :P --Brig**_

_. . . And my heart springs up anew,_

_Bright and confident and true,_

_And my old love comes to meet me in the dawning and the dew._

_--'I Who All The Winter Through,' Robert Louis Stevenson_

January 8th

Sarah put the first load of wash in the dryer and closed the door. From the other end of the house came a faint hammering. Hearing it, she couldn't help but smile.

One week into the project, and Greg had practically taken it over. His eagerness had surprised her; she'd expected resistance, sullen silence, arguments despite his agreement to help out. Instead he'd thrown himself into the work. At the moment he was fastening bookshelves to the north wall. She'd tried to get him to consider renting a set of steps with rails from the local hardware store, worried about his balance issues.

"I'm not that decrepit yet!" he'd snapped at her.

"How about the little stepladder then?" she'd asked. "No rails, but it won't tip easily either."

Sarah knew he was using it right now, and was doing her very best to leave him alone. _Let the man have some dignity_, she thought. _Nagging will not help him open up_. She sighed and set the dryer for thirty minutes when the phone rang. She hurried to answer it; Gene might call once he reached Dallas, if he had time. But it was a friend from across the village who spoke on the other end.

"Hi Sare! Can I ask you a big favor?"

"Hey Marti! Sure, what's up?" Sarah wedged the phone between her neck and shoulder as she sorted colors and whites.

"Mom needs me to come down for the day. Dad's not doing well and we may have to move him to the hospice sooner than we expected." Marti sounded resigned. "I can't take Chelsea and the church daycare is still on holiday schedule, could you watch her for me? I should be back around suppertime."

"I'd love to," Sarah said, smiling. "Want me to swing by?"

"I can bring her over on the way, no problem." The relief in Marti's voice broadened Sarah's smile to a grin. "Thanks, you're a lifesaver."

"Yeah, big and round with a hole in the middle," Sarah said, just to make Marti chuckle.

"And sweet too," Marti said. "We'll be by in a half hour or so."

Sarah hung up and went to the back room. The hammering grew louder as she approached. It was interrupted by a clang and a muttered curse. She didn't go in, just stood on one side of the doorway and peeked in.

"Everything okay?" she asked in a neutral tone. Greg turned a bit, his finger still in his mouth. Fierce blue eyes glared down at her. He removed his finger to reveal a small cut, still bleeding freely.

"_Peachy_," he growled. "Whaddaya want?"

"Thought you'd like to know we'll have company shortly. Her name's Chelsea, she's brunette with hazel eyes and loves to have fun," Sarah said, enjoying herself. Greg's features brightened a bit.

"Is she stacked? You know, nice rack, decent booty?"

"Not really, no. But she does enjoy playing in the kitchen." Sarah gave him a salacious wink. "If you know what I mean." She sauntered away, fizzing with laughter.

Twenty minutes later, when Marti handed her four-year-old daughter over to Sarah and took her leave, the look on Greg's face was priceless.

"A _kid_? Why the hell isn't she in school?" He stumped off, disgusted. Sarah finished unzipping Chelsea's coat and gave the little girl a smile.

"It's so nice to have you visit," she said, and meant it. "Let's put your things away. Then we can decide what you'd like to do today."

"Cookies!" Chelsea hopped up and down with excitement, and Sarah laughed.

"Okay, cookies. Maybe you could help me color some pictures later on too, after lunch. We need new ones for the fridge."

"I can help," Chelsea said as she took off her hat and mittens. "I color good."

Soon enough they were in the kitchen. Chelsea had a clean white teatowel pinned around her small frame, and Sarah wore her apron.

"What kind should we make?" Sarah flipped through the pages of a big Betty Crocker cookbook with Chelsea at her side. The little girl pointed to a picture featuring a plateful of sugar cookies. "Good choice. You get the butter and I'll get the flour."

Soon enough the KitchenAid was mixing up a double batch. "That way you can take some home for your family," Sarah said. "What kind of shapes do you want to use?"

Chelsea considered the cutters spread out on the tabletop. "Star . . . an' stocking . . . an' the gingerbread man."

"Those are for Christmas." Greg stood in the doorway, watching them. The expression on his face was unreadable.

"Greg, this is Chelsea Butterman," Sarah said. "Chelsea, this is my friend Greg House. He's staying with me and Uncle Gene for a while."

Chelsea regarded Greg for a few moments. "You have a boo-boo," she said.

"I smashed my finger with a hammer," he said. "That makes me a klutz, but at least I know what time of year it isn't."

"There are stars out every clear night," Sarah said, hiding a smile. "I wear stockings now and then all year long."

"You wear Christmas stockings?" Greg wanted to know. He gave Chelsea a sharp glance when she giggled, then relaxed a little when he saw she wasn't laughing at him. Sarah knew a moment of sadness. _He assumes laughter is meant to be cruel._ She set the feeling aside and joined in the teasing by giving him a puzzled look, eyebrows raised.

"Who doesn't?" she asked, her tone nonchalant. "I like the ones with gold sequins the best."

"Figures you'd be a frustrated stripper. And the gingerbread man?" Greg leaned against the doorjamb, smirking. "Explain that one."

"The gingerbread man . . . came back home after he ran away at Christmas," Sarah said, improvising. "He didn't want to get eaten." Chelsea giggled again and Greg rolled his eyes.

"Yeesh. Enabler." He straightened. "Are we having lunch any time soon?"

Sarah nodded. "We just need to put the dough into the fridge to chill, then we'll make something to eat."

Lunch turned out to be sandwiches and apple slices, enjoyed in front of the fire sitting on a tablecloth, picnic style. Well, she and Chelsea ate there. Greg declined to join them and took his ham on rye and beer with him into the office.

"He's a crankypants," Chelsea said. She munched an apple slice. "Why's he like that? Is it 'cause his leg hurts?"

"Sometimes." Sarah sipped her iced tea. "People are different. They come in all shapes and sizes and colors, and they can be grumpy or funny or everything in between. That's just how they are, like you and I are just how we are."

Chelsea absorbed this information without comment. She was a child with a lively and capacious intelligence; you rarely had to tell her anything twice, and she was perfectly able to arrive at her own rather astute conclusions.

"My Pop-pop's gonna go to heaven," she said after a moment. Sarah nodded.

"I think so too."

"Does he have to?" Chelsea's bottom lip quivered. "I don't want him to go."

"He's a good grandpa, isn't he?" Sarah said softly. "I don't think he wants to leave you, sweetie."

"What's wrong with him?" The little girl came over to Sarah and climbed into her lap. Sarah snuggled her in, her arms enfolding the small form.

"His heart is tired. It doesn't work right anymore."

"Can't the doctor fix it?"

"His doctors tried, but sometimes things can't be fixed." Sarah smoothed a dark curl from the pale forehead. "When that happens, it's time for the sick person to leave their body."

"An' go to heaven," Chelsea said.

"I think so," Sarah said. "How about you curl up on the couch for a little while? I'll tell you a story."

Chelsea made it halfway through 'Goldilocks and the Three Bears' before falling asleep, thumb in mouth. Sarah eased the little girl from her lap, tucked her under the cotton throw, put more wood on the fire to keep the room warm, and went into the kitchen to finish the laundry and check her email.

She was in the middle of an interesting article about El Nino years sent by her storm-chasing partner when Greg came in. He put his plate in the dishwasher and rinsed out the bottle, took another from the fridge. He paused when passing by the table.

"You really did a number on that kid."

Sarah finished a paragraph and looked up at him. "Care to elaborate?"

"All that 'he's going to heaven' crap. From what I heard the man's got a bad ticker. You know when it gives out he's dead--end of story. No heaven, no hell, just sky." He tilted his head. "Hmm. Someone could make a good song out of that."

"Chelsea's parents are Christian," Sarah said.

"You're supporting their delusions just because they believe in the Big Bronze Age Book of Fairy Tales," Greg said.

"If Chelsea comes to me someday and asks about my personal beliefs, I'll tell her. Until then, I have no business interfering with the way Marti and Rob raise their children."

"So . . . you'll back a lie because it's convenient for the adults." He gave her a contemptuous look. "That's even worse."

"I may not believe in heaven exactly, but I know our spirits don't die with our bodies," Sarah said quietly. "I'm not backing a lie."

"Tomayto, tomahto. That kid will be a mess when Grandpa kicks the bucket and it'll be your fault." He limped away before she could answer him.

Two hours later Chelsea was awake and the first batch of slightly lumpy, misshapen and sugar-covered cookies was in the oven baking.

"We'll pack these up and you can take them home to Mom and Dad and Erica," Sarah said, amused at the amount of pink and green crystals scattered over the tabletop.

"After we make more, let's go outside an' play," Chelsea said. "It's snowin'."

Sarah glanced out the window. Her stomach tightened. "So it is."

"We can make a snowman. You don't have one. We do. We have four." Chelsea stuck the stocking cutter into the dough, the tip of her tongue showing as she pushed down.

"Sounds like a plan," Sarah said, and suppressed a shiver. "You can show me how to do it."

"You _never_ made a snowman?" The little girl's astonishment was plain.

Sarah shook her head. "Nope. Where I grew up they don't usually get a lot of snow like you do here."

"Did you live in Florida?" Chelsea put a crooked stocking on the baking sheet and dumped a generous handful of pink sugar over it. "Mom-mom Myers lives there now."

"No, not Florida. I lived in a place called Oklahoma." Sarah added a star to the sheet and sprinkled it with green sugar. "In some places it's flat like a tabletop, and in the summer there are big thunderstorms. One June when I was your age, pieces of ice called hail came out of the sky. A big chunk hit me in the shoulder."

Chelsea's eyes were wide. "Did it hurt?"

"A little bit." _A lot_, Sarah thought. _The damn thing was the size of a tennis ball. No one even noticed the bruise it gave me with all the others Dad left. Yay for childhood memories. _"So how _do_ you make a snowman?"

The technical aspects of construction occupied them through baking the next batch and cleanup. As Sarah dressed Chelsea in her outdoor gear, she kept her mind on the task at hand—not too difficult with a four-year-old eager to play.

"Let's go!" Chelsea jumped up and down, her impatience plain.

"Okay—I'll be right behind you," Sarah said. "Stay in the front yard, don't go down to the lane." She opened the door and the little girl ran out to dive headfirst into a snowdrift. Sarah swallowed on a dry throat and took her parka out of the closet. It was only then that the fear she'd been battling for over half an hour finally broke free. She stood in the front hall, eyes closed, trembling as she tugged on her coat and tried to zip it closed. _I can do this, _she thought, and jumped when someone spoke.

"What's wrong with you?"

Greg stood a few feet away, watching her.


	2. Chapter 2

**_(A/N: This is the last chapter I have revised. I'll be working on more over the next couple of days and hope to have new chapters posted soon._**

**_House's comment about monster trucks is paraphrased from a quote by Jeph Jacques. --B)_**

"What's wrong with you?"

Greg stares hard at Sarah. She's pale, her hands shaking as she tries to zip up her coat.

"I'm okay," she says too quickly.

"No you're not," he says. "You're scared to death."

"I'm fine." She looks down at her hands as she tugs on a pair of mittens. "We'll be out in the front yard."

"Why do you insist on this idiocy?" He wants to shake her. "You give too much to everyone. You expect too much from yourself. That kid's day won't be ruined if you don't make a damn snowman."

"The only way to deal with an obstacle is to go through it," she says, and pulls a really hideous mustard yellow stocking cap onto her head. Auburn curls stick out in all directions.

"There should be a monster truck option," he says. "Stop trying to conquer your fears. Everyone's got a phobia or two, it's healthy."

That makes her laugh, though it sounds hollow to his ears. "I thought Wilson was good at rationalizing." She turns away. "Back in a bit." The word 'bit' comes out in two syllables: _biy-yit_. She opens the front door and goes out into the snow, shoulders hunched under her thick coat as she disappears in a swirl of fat flakes before pulling the door closed behind her. Greg watches her, frowning. After a few moments he returns to the office.

Twenty minutes later, he has to admit he's worried. "Stupid pointless emotion," he grumbles as he climbs off the stepladder. "She's an adult, she knows how to take care of herself. She'll be fine_._" And still he finds he is headed to the front hall. He takes his old North Face parka from the closet and puts it on, followed by gloves and a thick wool cap, and goes outside, forced to move with care because he doesn't have his cane. It's useless in a situation like this.

It's like walking into a snow-globe. The whole world is white; it's difficult to see where the ground ends and the sky begins. He flounders over the thick drifts at the edge of the drive and tries to peer through the curtain of flakes. It is sound that tells him finally where they are. He hears the kid laughing and Sarah's voice raised in query.

"Like this?"

"Yeah!"

He follows the words until both parties suddenly pop into view. Sarah is attempting to roll a snowball and making a pretty poor job of it, while the kid is packing snow onto a lopsided mound the size of a basketball. Both of them are covered with a thick layer of fresh flakes.

"That's all you have done?" he says. "Pathetic."

Sarah straightens and wipes her face. "Help out or shut up," she says. There is a definite edge to her words, but she isn't angry at him. It is more than obvious she hates every moment of this and yet she's here, facing her demons. He watches her for a moment, then bends down and makes a big hard ball, begins to roll it. It's tough because of his leg, but he manages it all the same. A few minutes later he has the base for an enormous snowman ready to go.

"Now we do the middle part!" The kid is hopping all over the place, excited and happy. Greg sighs and starts another snowball, rolls it in fresh snow. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Sarah doing the same. When he plops the second section atop the base, she brings over a head the size of a bowling ball and jams it onto the middle. He's sure she'll call it quits then, but she only says "We need some sticks for the arms, don't we?"

They spend an inordinate amount of time looking for small tree branches, pebbles, and something resembling a nose. While Sarah and the kid do the decorating, he makes a smaller snowman--or to be more accurate, a snowwoman. This one has breasts.

"We can't leave the poor guy out here alone," he says when Sarah looks at his work, brows raised. "It would be cruel."

"No nipples," she says, but for the first time he hears a hint of something like amusement under the stern tone.

"Killjoy," he says. When she moves away he makes a loose snowball and launches it at her, pulling the throw so it isn't too fast or hard. The snowball smacks into her left boob and explodes. She's so surprised she falls backward and ends up on her ass in a drift, her eyes as big as saucers. The kid cracks up.

"Oops. S-sorry," Greg says with complete insincerity, snickering. Sarah looks up at him. Then she reaches out and gathers a handful of snow, starts to pack it. Greg backs away, aware suddenly that he might have just started something he will regret. Too late; a snowball hits him mid-chest. The kid cheers, Sarah laughs and the battle is on.

Sometime later they all troop into the house, covered with snow, half-frozen and thoroughly entertained. Wet coats, hats and mittens are removed and put in the dryer while everyone bundles into clean sweaters and fresh socks. Then they go into the kitchen for hot cocoa and cookies. It's so horribly Norman Rockwellian (if that's even a phrase) that his blood sugar should be sky-high, but somehow it's actually not too nauseating to sit with a hot drink in one hand and a really ugly cookie in the other, listening to Sarah and the kid joke around. Wilson can't find out about this though. The news would be all over PPTH in five minutes flat, with that yenta flapping his jaws to everyone in sight. _Jesus, I'd __never__ live it down. It'd be worse than a pink bunny suit from Aunt Clara._

"We need to make a fort!" The kid takes a slurp of cocoa. She is vibrating like a live wire, her big hazel eyes sparkling with excitement (and massive amounts of sugar, no doubt). Greg tries to remember what it was like to run and jump and play all day without tiring, without pain, but at the moment the only thing he can recall is his father's voice: _Don't track mud into your mother's kitchen again or you'll scrub the entire floor. I won't tell you twice, Gregory. _

"I've never made one of those either," Sarah is saying. "Maybe when Uncle Gene comes home we can do that. I'll ask your parents if you and Erica can stay over."

"Great." Greg rolls his eyes. "Two brats instead of one, can't wait."

To his surprise the kid giggles. He peers at her. "What's your name again?"

"Chelsea!" She bites into a cookie. "An' you're Unca Greg."

"I'm nobody's uncle," he informs her.

"Courtesy," Sarah says. He gives her a sharp glance. "You're a courtesy uncle, I'm a courtesy auntie."

"Auntie Sarah!" Chelsea finishes her cup of cocoa. "I wanna color."

"Cool," Sarah says, smiling.

He's thinking there will be coloring books, but instead she brings out a roll of butcher paper and the biggest box of crayons he's ever seen. The table is cleared, the paper rolled out and cut into big squares, and the crayons plunked down within easy reach.

"Lou always orders an extra roll of paper for me," Sarah says. "Sometimes we tape it to the walls and do murals, but today it's warmer in the kitchen."

Greg glances at her as she's speaking. She looks better, calmer, but she's still struggling with having been outside, he can sense it. Without thinking he slides into diagnostic mode and checks out her thyroid. It doesn't look enlarged or nodular, though he can't be sure without palpation; her skin isn't dry or paler than it should be, and her hair doesn't show signs of thinning. Still, some tests wouldn't go amiss, just to make sure things are okay on the TSH/iodine uptake front.

"I'm gonna draw a snow fort," Chelsea announces. She pulls a purple crayon from the box.

"Excellent choice," Sarah says. She has a grey crayon and is outlining a snowman. Her hand is deft and sure, moving over the paper with assurance. Within seconds there is a faithful representation of the scene outside. In the meantime Chelsea is creating an enormous purple square with wobbly sides.

"Kid, the only way snow turns purple is if you pour grape juice on it," Greg says, making Chelsea laugh.

"Snow has all kinds of colors in it, including purple," Sarah says. "I should show you some of my books on snowflakes. They're amazing." She gives him a swift glance. "You're not going to color with us?"

"I'm fifty-one," he says. "No one that old colors anymore."

"Your argument is specious," Sarah says, and chooses a white crayon.

"What's 'spee-shush' mean?" Chelsea abandons purple for neon orange.

"She's saying I'm full of it," Greg says. "I'm not, she's just saying it."

"Coloring's fun," Chelsea says.

"God, now they're ganging up on me," he complains.

"I didn't say you had to color, I just said your reply lacks logic." Sarah is shading the snowman with small strokes, giving it dimension and depth. "If you don't want to—"

He snatches a piece of paper. "Happy now?"

"You need a color," Chelsea says.

"Nitpicker." He looks over the box and chooses one at random. "Burnt umber? What the hell kind of name is that? And it's ugly too." He stuffs it back into the box and finds another crayon. This one is cobalt. He tests it. It's a dark saturated blue with a faint charcoal-grey tint to it. He colors in a corner of the square, secretly enjoying the feel of wax and crisp paper.

"That's one of my favorites," Sarah says. "A strong color. Not many people like it." She gives her sketch a few final touches and sets it aside, takes another piece of paper. "You want a dragon, Chelsea?"

The little girl does a dance in her chair. "Dragon! Dragon!"

"You are such a suckup," Greg says. He watches her begin the drawing. She is already focused on her work, tucking a curl behind her ear. A few minutes later she hands the sketch to Chelsea. It's a dragon all right, dark bronze and gold with hazel eyes and bearing a strong resemblance to the recipient of the drawing. With just a few strokes of color Sarah has managed to catch the girl's effervescence and intelligence. It's evidence of his analyst's redoubtable powers of observation, and a reminder to be cautious around her. She sees deeply and far too well.

They are all redeemed from further mawkishness by the arrival of Chelsea's mother. In the mild chaos of getting the little girl ready to go, Greg is conscious of several speculative glances sent his way. When he and Sarah are alone he says,

"You know it'll be all over town now that I'm living here with you."

Sarah continues putting away the crayons. "Yes," she says. She's too unconcerned; this isn't news to her.

"You've already heard rumors," he says.

"There's been gossip going around since October that Gene and I are in an open marriage and you're some kind of kept man," she says.

"Great idea," he says, and Sarah laughs. "But someone still trusts you enough to babysit?" He watches her closely.

"We've let it be known that you're a friend staying with us for a while," she said. "It's inevitable that some people will believe there's more going on. That's human nature. Anyone who knows us well knows better."

"You didn't tell them I'm your patient." He is surprised by that.

"That's not for me to divulge," she says. "It's up to you."

He relaxes a little. He's pretty sure having the label 'mental patient' plastered all over him will make life in a small town unbearable. No way is he telling anyone the real reason why he's here.

"I think we should explore the possibilities this arrangement offers us," he says, unable to resist testing the waters. Sarah gives him a dry look.

"You would. One pirate in my life is enough, thanks."

"You've said that before," he says.

"And I'll probably say it again," she says. "Could you grab the tape out of that drawer for me please?"

She actually hangs the kid's hideous picture on the refrigerator. "It's like looking at a giant purple jello cube gone mutant," Greg grumbles. "It's gonna ruin my appetite."

"Don't be a weenie," Sarah says, smiling. "How about soup and fresh Italian rolls tonight? I could use some comfort food."

Later on, when he is in the living room watching an 'L Word' marathon, he hears Sarah on the phone in the kitchen. It's obvious she's speaking with Gene. Her quiet voice is trembling just a little.

"Hey honey . . . you'll never guess what happened. I went outside today. We made a snowman" There is a pause. ". . . It was fun. Yeah, it really was."

Greg listens to the sound of someone doing her best to walk through an insurmountable impasse, and keeps his thoughts to himself.


	3. Chapter 3

_**(A/N: usually there's a spot in any story where I get stuck for a bit. I've hit it with this one. I can see where I want to go, but getting there is going to take some time. Chapter Four is in the works, I'll try to get it done and posted in the next few days, so please don't give up on me and thanks for reading. A review would be nice too, if you please. :) --B)**_

_January 16__th_

_11 a.m._

_Her skin is like silk, warm and soft, her dark hair falling all around her face as she leans in to kiss him. Her lips brush his and he gives a soft moan of need, reaching up to bring her closer, but she pulls back and shakes her head, smiling. He tries again to grasp her arms but his hands close on empty air . . . _

He wakes with a start, his dream fading even as he tries to keep it in his mind. He rolls on his side to relieve a truly enormous erection, wincing as his bad leg cramps, and opens his eyes in time to see some kind of bug disappearing between his pillow and the wall. It's small and black—a beetle or a spider, he can't tell. A vivid memory of the dream woman's lips touching his comes back and he scrambles out of bed. Now he knows where _that_ came from.

"_Blech_!" Disgusted and deflated, he scrubs his mouth and searches for his bathrobe, pulls it on over his filthy sweats and tee shirt and wrenches open the bedroom door. Sunlight hits his eyes and he's tempted to hiss like a vampire. Instead he limps to the kitchen in search of coffee.

There is indeed fresh brew ready, along with some sausage and eggs keeping warm in the oven. He pours a cup of joe and sips it, grateful for the heat and slightly harsh roasted taste. After a few swallows his belly wakes up to the fact it's empty. He fixes a small plate of food, grabs a fork and, balancing the load with care, heads to the living room.

He's flipping through the channels for the third time when the front door bangs open and shut. Sarah comes in, a big wad of mail clutched in her hand.

"Good morning," she says with what Greg considers to be excessive cheer. He squints at her for a moment, then turns his attention back to the tv.

When it becomes clear there is nothing on, he clicks off the television and takes his empty dishes into the kitchen. Sarah sits at the table, the inevitable cup of tea by her right hand. In front of her is a stack of what appear to be catalogs. There are lurid explosions of color on the covers—bright red tomatoes, kelly green beans, pure white radishes. She is paging through one with a rapt expression on her face. Greg bends down to peer at the information.

"Have you looked outside lately?" he asks—a purely rhetorical question, of course--and scratches his backside. "Not a good time for gardens, unless you're a total nut case who likes digging through snow drifts to plant stuff that WON'T GROW BECAUSE IT'S FUCKING WINTER."

Sarah puts down the catalog and lifts her head to look at him. It's a thorough going-over that takes him in from top to bottom. He glares at her, feeling out of sorts and antsy and wanting to pick a fight.

"You've got a really bad case of cabin fever," she says after a few moments. "Why don't you get cleaned up and come into town with me? We can go to the auction and see if there's anything we can use in the office." She sets the catalogs aside and stands up. "The roads are clear and it isn't too cold. We'll take Minnie Lou. You haven't met her yet, this will be a good chance to get acquainted."

"I need a formal introduction to ride in a truck." He rolls his eyes. "Only to be expected from a redneck. I bet you've even written a song about it."

"Her," Sarah corrects, laughing. "Meet me in the living room in half an hour."

The whole time he's brushing his teeth and digging around for clean jeans and a sweater in a mountain of unfolded laundry, he's trying to find some reason not to go. But half an hour later he's waiting with some impatience in the living room, coat and gloves on, ready to get out of the house and see some new sights, even if it's just small town stuff.

Sarah comes in from outside, stamping her feet on the mat. "Truck's warmed up," she says. "Let's go."

He follows her out the door and stops in absolute shock on the front step. There in the drive is the '55 Jimmy pickup from his dream of the white twister and the long straight highway and the old black woman, warning him of storms ahead. He stares at it, trying to breathe normally. He feels like someone's sucker-punched him. _This can't be,_ he thinks in something close to panic. _No way. No __way__!_

"What's wrong?" Sarah pauses in the act of opening the driver's side door. "Are you--"

"I'm fine," he snaps, and forces himself to move forward. The truck is even the same color—dark green with a cream rag top, the GMC logo gleaming on the hood. _Must have seen it back in October, _he thinks as he opens the door and climbs in. _Even one small glimpse out of the corner of my eye—or maybe there's a picture somewhere in the house—_

"Something's not right," Sarah is saying. There is genuine worry in her soft voice. With an effort Greg pulls himself together and shuts the door.

"Let's go," he says, and won't look at her. After a moment she puts the truck in drive and they're on their way to town.

He waits for her to start questioning him. Wilson would be beside himself at this point; he'd never let up until he got answers. Sarah says nothing though. After a few minutes Greg can stand it no longer.

"Admit it. You're dying to interrogate me," he says.

"No," she says.

"Yeeees," he says, knowing she's lying.

"You said nothing's wrong. There's no reason for me to ask you anything." She slows down for an icy patch in the road.

"Very clever," he says. "Taking a mental patient at his word. How's that working out for you?"

"Either tell or don't. Your choice," Sarah says. "But just so you know, you looked . . . stricken. Scared."

"Not scared," he says quickly. "Shocked would be more accurate. I didn't expect an antique."

She spares him a withering glance. "Minnie's only four years older than you," she says.

"It isn't age that counts, it's mileage," he says. "My odometer hasn't rolled over yet. I doubt your heap can make the same claim."

Sarah sighs a little. "If you want to talk, just talk. Don't mock my truck."

He is silent for a few moments, debating. Finally he says, "This thing was in my dream."

She doesn't jump on his revelation. She considers what he's said, and in that moment he understands why he spoke. He trusts her to listen. The use of the t-word in that thought disturbs him.

"What else is bothering you?" she asks at last. He looks away, unwilling to give her more. "Okay. It can wait till we get home, if you like."

Greg nods once. He'll figure out how this happened, because he knows there's a logical explanation for how a truck he's never seen before showed up in his dream. Then he'll tell Sarah about some of it, enough to give him some credit in his 'open and honest' account with her.

By dint of long practice, he's got his feelings locked down by the time they roll into town. The village is a little bigger than he remembers from his one nighttime visit back in October. A single stoplight, post office, combined feed store and grocery, pharmacy, church, pizza shop, library, tiny little coin-op laundry, and bar, all arranged around a small square with statues and park benches. Sarah pulls around behind the feed store. There is a pole building in an open field with dozens of trucks and cars parked in a gravel lot.

Sarah drops him off at the front door. He heads inside, blinking as the high albedo of winter sunlight is replaced by flat cool fluorescence. While his eyes adjust he sees the building is full of furniture, bric-a-brac and junk of all kinds. _Estate sale_, he thinks. _Might be a few treasures but they'll be snapped up fast. _Still, the sheer amount of odds and ends intrigues him.

Slowly he moves deeper into the pile, ignoring appliances and knickknacks. A few stacks of books yield nothing of interest. Just ahead he sees what they've come for—desks, chairs, tables—but the pickings are slim there too. He brushes past someone examining a lamp and almost loses his balance when he is pushed away.

"Hey!" It's a young woman, her thin face dark with annoyance. "Keep your hands to yourself!"

"I didn't even touch you," he says in protest.

"Yeah right, then how come you grabbed my ass?"

"You'd have to have one first," he says. She glares at him.

"If this had broken you would have paid for it," she says. He glances at the lamp in her hands and shrugs.

"Not much of a threat, considering that thing is a piece of crap."

"It needs a new cord and socket and a good cleaning," she says. "So do you."

He snorts in amusement before he can stop himself, and takes a closer look at his antagonist. She's skinny, no rack or hips to speak of, and her features are angular. She's on the leggy side, though not all that tall; her skin has a slight olive cast to it, and her long dark hair is in dire need of cutting and shaping. But it is her eyes that catch his attention. They are striking, green and brown with tiny flecks of gold, framed by thick black lashes, and they are her one beauty. At the moment they are also filled with profound dislike. Well, nothing new there. He's seen that look many a time over the years from all sorts of people, most of them women.

"Do I pass inspection?" she asks, heavy on the sarcasm.

"Nope," he says, and walks away. He half-expects the lamp to crash into the back of his head, but nothing happens.

Eventually he catches up with Sarah. She is admiring a Regency writing desk, an elegant piece made of oak with a leather pad and crystal inkwell tucked into the front drawer. The pad pulls out to serve as an angled writing surface.

"Totally impractical," Greg says, though he likes it too. She nods, but her small fingers caress the top gently before she turns to another item.

They examine the offerings—three more desks, half a dozen chairs and two tables—and decide none of them are suitable. Either they're too big or too fragile.

"There will be plenty of other sales," Sarah says as they walk to the entrance. "We'll find what we need eventually."

They are at the doors when Greg checks his pocket. "Dammit. I must have left my phone at one of the displays. I'll meet you outside."

A short time later they are parked by the common and headed for the feed store. "I need some stuff for starting seeds," Sarah says. "See you in half an hour."

He opts to cruise the grocery. It's easier to walk when he's pushing a cart anyway. The store is small but there's a surprising amount of variety on the shelves. He ends up with a nice stash of junk food, a gallon of chocolate milk, a hefty stack of tabloids and a pack of Marlboros. He's not really a smoker but the urge has made itself known a few times over the last week.

He is putting his bags into the flatbed when Sarah shows up with a gangly teenager in tow. They stow away several boxes full of arcane objects next to his bags and pull a tarp over everything, securing it to the tailgate.

"Let's get some lunch," Sarah says. "I could stand to eat someone else's cooking."

They end up at Lou's with two sandwiches and a double order of fries. It's noisy and cheerful in the little restaurant, with the delicious smell of hot grease and fresh dough hanging in the air.

"I can't imagine being stuck here full time," Greg says. He snitches a wad of french fries and slides them through the ketchup on his plate.

"How many towns did you live in as a kid?" Sarah sips her iced tea. He can tell she isn't in analyst mode, so he answers her with more candor than usual.

"Too many to count. Most of them were military bases." He munches the fries. "How about you?"

"Mostly Tulsa, though we moved around a lot when I was small. Then Grandma Bailey gave the farm to Dad when I was six." She smiles a little. "Big old drafty house. But it was good when we first moved there. I loved the barn. We boarded horses to make money. I learned how to groom and use a saddle and tack from one of the boarders. Up till then I'd been riding bareback—not the way you're thinking of," she says dryly when he raises his eyebrows at her, leering. "I was just a kid. So you really did live in Cairo?"

He is telling her about investigating the Museum when a shadow falls across the table. It is the woman from the estate sale, her sharp features wedged into a scowl. Greg stops in mid-sentence.

"Rosie," Sarah says in the awkward silence. "This is Greg House. Greg, this is Rosie deGroot."

"I should kick your ass," the woman says—to Sarah, not Greg. Sarah grins, her sea-green eyes bright with mischief.

"It's your name," she says, all innocence. The woman gives Greg a brief glance.

"Figures you're with her," she says. "I answer to Roz, not 'Rosie'. As you well know," she says to Sarah.

"You two have met?" Sarah steals a fry and nibbles it. "Do tell."

Roz looks disgusted. "He tried to cop a feel."

"Uh, _no_," Greg says. "I'd be terrified of getting my hand amputated by a hipbone." He tilts his head. "How do you roll over in bed without ripping up the sheets?"

Roz looks him over. "Cripple." It is both summing-up and dismissal. She turns to Sarah. "I can come out to do an estimate next week sometime."

"Don't tell me _she's_ the electrician," Greg says.

"That would be fine," Sarah says, ignoring the hostile atmosphere.

"I don't want her working in the house!" he protests.

"Okay, see you Friday." Roz spares him a final contemptuous glance before walking away. Her narrow back is very straight.

"You were rude," Sarah says, but her eyes glint with humor. "Give her a chance. Roz isn't a bitch, she's just drawn that way."

"She's got man-hater DNA," Greg says. "No way am I going anywhere near her."

Sarah picks up another fry and contemplates it for a moment before taking a bite. "Okay," she says. "Let's finish up and head for home. I've got seeds to start."


	4. Chapter 4

_**(A/N: I hope this chapter isn't too confusing to read. It's something of an experiment. I had an unused chapter from Thursday's Child that seemed to fit here; it was written about House's dream, which follows his memory of his night with Cuddy back in college--see chapters 4 and 5 of Thursday's Child if you'd like to refresh your memory. Anyway, passages from that old chapter are now used as Greg's retelling of the dream to Sarah in their session, and are emphasized in boldface italic. Please forgive the corny dialogue in House's dream--it had to be written that way. Hey, don't shoot me--I'm just a typist for my muses.**_

_**'Sail On Sailor' copyright Brian Wilson, Jack Rieley, Ray Kennedy, Tandyn Almer, and Van Dyke Parks. I do not make money from or own House. Only my OCs are mine, and they'll argue with you about that if you let them. Please review, I'd appreciate comments and feedback--B)**_

_January 16__th_

_10 p.m._

Sarah gave the Martin a final tuning. Before her a dying fire hissed and crackled, the flames sending soft ripples of light across the quiet living room. She picked a chord or two, sorting through her store of songs. Greg had already gone to bed, but it was something of a tradition now for her to play a while before she headed upstairs. He never said anything one way or the other about it, but she suspected the music helped him fall asleep. Since she'd started an evening session on a regular basis he'd seemed a bit more rested and less likely to take long naps later on in the day.

He'd certainly done anything but sleep this afternoon, however. She'd been surprised by his willingness to talk about the dream he'd mentioned earlier. Of course there was an ulterior motive, she'd known that from the start; he was hoping to come across as cooperative and earn a few good marks for doing so. She smiled a little. Things obviously hadn't gone quite as planned though, because in the course of relating his experience he had truly opened up. It was a real breakthrough, the first one in many weeks.

**_(The house is almost silent as he climbs down the staircase. The living room holds a few diehards sharing a roach, but everyone else has either passed out or disappeared. He grabs his jacket from the back of the kitchen door, slips through the dark and goes out on the porch, intent on a smoke in peace and quiet. _**

**_For a long while he sits in the darkness, his thoughts moving in a random, almost aimless pattern. He knows he is being offered something important—but for the life of him he cannot figure out what it is, or how to keep from fucking things up the way he usually does. The night's events fill him with equal parts exhilaration and outright dread. Even more alarming, he feels a sense of peace within, a rightness he's never known before. He cannot explain or analyze it; no amount of logic will give him the reason why this has happened. Even so he holds the feeling carefully, cherishing the warmth it lends._**

**_At last he finishes a second smoke and stands up, giving the yard a cursory glance. What he sees stops him in his tracks. A flat, treeless plain has taken the place of the frat house's urban setting. Stars glitter overhead, a sprinkle of glowing dust across midnight velvet; a gibbous moon hangs low in the sky, fat and yellow as a Halloween jack-o-lantern. This is certainly not Ann Arbor or even Michigan, yet somehow it makes complete sense that he's here. Fields and open country stretch for miles on either side of a narrow two-lane highway. Day is just beginning, clear and cool. He stretches a little and does a slow turn, getting his bearings.)_**

Sarah strummed softly. There had been just a hint of hesitancy in Greg's voice at that point in the narrative. It could have been put there on purpose, but she didn't think so. The vibe she'd gotten off him was one of confusion, with a touch of fear hidden away beneath it all.

**_(Across the road and pulled onto the shoulder is a truck—a '55 Jimmy flatbed pickup. He walks to it, taking his time. It's a beauty, utilitarian but well cared for, forest green with a cream-colored ragtop and white sidewalls. He puts his hand on the hood; the engine is still warm._**

**"_Minnie Lou, I presume," he says. A quick glance in the driver's side window reveals keys in the ignition. _**

**_In no time at all he's riding down the highway. The truck runs smooth as silk, her lights illuminating the path ahead. It unwinds like a grey ribbon, straight and true in the faint light. Above him the stars are fading as the deep blue of night is replaced by azure and gold. Over the drone of the engine the radio plays softly. Fresh air billows in the open window, fragrant with the clean sweet scent of the last cutting of hay. He rubs his ruined thigh, a gesture become habitual over the years—but this time there is no answering pain. His heart swells with joy, as mysterious and bright as the new day.) _**

She was always amazed by the deeply intuitive subconscious Greg had tucked away in the eaves of that powerhouse brain. Often she felt intimidated by the enormity of his genius, the manner in which he could look at an object or a person and extract entire worlds of information from them without hesitation.

Sarah had realized very early on in Greg's treatment that in some ways he was literally a human search engine. If you handed Greg House a penny, his mind pulled up a multitude of facts: the history of coins in general and pennies in particular, the mint where the penny was created, the chemistry and process of the oxidation on the surface, the alloy of metals in the coin, the current market worth of those metals, and even events from the year the penny was minted, juxtaposed with speculation concerning your motive for giving him the coin—all viewed at once and juggled with effortless ease to find the most relevant information. He believed it was reason alone that synthesized those disparate elements into a theory or deduction, but without an intuition capable of seeing the whole picture, the details wouldn't come together.

**_("Good road," someone says. He glances to his right. An old woman sits next to him. Her features are so dark they seem formed from the material of the retreating night. _**

**"_Where are we headed?" he asks—a foolish question, since he's driving._**

**"_Storm's comin'," the old woman says. "You're in twister country."_**

**"_But the air's calm," he says._**

**"_Weather's funny that way. It'll change quick as a wink." She chuckles, a rich deep sound that doesn't seem as if it could come out of someone so small. He squints through the dusty windshield. In an open field ahead on the right he sees chaff kicking up, a blurry smudge above the golden stubble. _**

**"_Damn," he says, fascinated. He slows to watch the dust devil. It grows, churning as the funnel widens, but it does not darken. Instead it turns white, a column reaching into the lightening sky. Fear replaces curiosity. He jams on the brakes, gripping the wheel in preparation to turn and get the hell out of there.)_**

Behind the relentless logic lay a profound desire to create and enjoy beauty, a fine sense of and appreciation for the mysteries and minutiae of life, and a longing to love and be loved so powerful it took her breath away. But it was all hidden in some protected place within, allowed undiluted freedom only in his music or occasional secret acts of kindness or generosity because that part of his nature both bewildered and frightened him.

_I need to talk with Blythe House._ The thought came out of nowhere. Sarah frowned a bit and paused in her playing. It was not usual for her to see a patient's immediate family; often they were estranged or embittered by years of dealing with lies, addictions and other difficult behaviors. But there was more to it than that, if she was honest about it; she had issues with family, and parents in particular. The thought of Blythe set her teeth on edge.

**_("Don't do no good to be scared." The ancient voice holds certainty. "Pay attention and show some respect, you'll be all right. Try to run, you'll be hit for sure."_**

**_Despite every instinct telling him to back up, he stays put. The funnel jumps the drainage ditch, crosses the road and passes in front of them not ten feet away, whirling like a sawblade in a silence so intense he feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. After it passes he turns to his companion and finds he is alone. He stares at the empty seat. A few moments later he puts the truck in park, opens the door and steps into the road. The funnel is roping out now, its inner core visible. He watches it dissipate. When it has gone he returns to the truck. On the passenger side seat is a battered black Stetson. He picks it up, looking over each dent and scar. _Paid a kiss and a shot of tequila for it_, a soft clear voice whispers in his memory. _**

**"_Queen of Hearts," he says. "Lady Luck." A smile slips into place, the corners of his mouth turning up. With care he replaces the hat on the seat, climbs in and shuts the door. He puts Minnie in drive, intent on sending her down the road. But he is being pulled away now, the scene fading as he tries desperately to hang onto something, anything . . . "No!" he shouts, and the word sticks in his throat, sharp as a razor blade. "No . . . NO!")_**

Sarah sighed and closed her eyes for a moment. It was quite clear that whatever Greg's conscious mind chose to believe, his intuitive core saw her as a guide and mentor. That role carried certain responsibilities, the most important of which was to recognize her own difficulties with family and set them aside. She had to remain objective to do whatever was necessary to help her patient.

Blythe was apparently the only remaining first-hand eyewitness to Greg's formative years. Even if her memories were selective and self-serving, they could still be useful. _But you need to be honest about the other reason why you're contemplating this action, _Sarah thought. _You want to know how a mother could let her child—especially a gifted child like Greg--be abused. It touches on your own experiences. That means you have to think this through, make sure you're doing this for Greg and not you. Objectivity is paramount, or you could cause more damage. _"Dammit," she said aloud.

**_(He doesn't want to wake, but it's too late. The dream stands on the other side of consciousness now; he watches it fade and knows a terrible aching longing to be back in that new morning, at peace and whole with a wonderful journey ahead to be savored. Tears are trickling down his cheeks and he feels shame at his weakness. Pain waits for him, he knows it; endless and inexorable as death, it's something he should be used to by now. But a moment of freedom within a stupid trick of the mind has destroyed his ability to endure the unendurable._**

**_Now, far away from that moment, alone and afraid, he doesn't care how pathetic it reveals him to be; he reaches out blindly. When Sarah offers her hand he seizes it and holds on tight. Her gaze is steady and bright, taking in all of him without judgment or pity, filled with quiet understanding. Queen of Hearts; Lady Luck. The titles come out of nowhere, but he knows they're from his dream. _**

**"_Would you like to work on this with me?" she is asking. He doesn't hesitate. He nods yes before his courage deserts him. Her hand tightens gently on his for a moment and he is grateful for the physical presence of her there, a reminder that for now at least, he has someone willing to help him._**

**"_All right," she says. "Let's talk about it." The faint accent in her soft voice brings to mind the smell of fresh-cut hay and cool morning air, a pledge of renewal, of beginning again.)_**

As she sat there struggling with her motives, a song lyric slid into Sarah's mind. The rightness of the words made her smile. Slowly she stretched, watching the embers of the fire as they glowed with the last remnants of heat and light. After a time she fingered the opening chord, played it softly as she began to sing.

"I sailed an ocean, unsettled ocean/through restful waters and deep commotion/often frightened, unenlightened/sail on, sail on sailor . . ."

She'd have to talk with Greg about this, and he'd probably raise all kinds of hell over bringing his mother into his therapeutic process. She could work on that though, if it turned out to be the right thing to do.

"I wrest the waters, fight Neptune's waters/sail through the sorrows of life's marauders/unrepenting, often empty/sail on, sail on sailor . . ."

Whatever Blythe might be able or willing to contribute, if she consented it could mean more forward progress for her patient. Sarah felt her heart tighten at the thought. If she were completely truthful with herself, she knew she wanted him to find the joy he'd known for such a short time in his dream. He deserved the chance to find peace. She could not be truly objective about that aspect of their process now; she'd grown to feel a strong and abiding affection for Greg despite his attempts to push her away. She understood why he did it, and knew he could do it again; it was his nature to be resistant. Her job was to work with his resistance and use it to help him, if she could.

This felt right. She'd finally found a path she could walk and have Greg follow her, learning to trust and become more open. Of course there would be unseen potholes and stumbling blocks along the way, but they were all part of the journey.

"Seldom stumble, never crumble/try to tumble, life's a rumble/feel the stinging I've been given/never ending, unrelenting/heartbreak searing, always fearing/never caring, persevering

sail on, sail on sailor . . ."


	5. Chapter 5

_January 16th_

_10 p.m._

He sits on the edge of the bed, staring down at the prescription bottle in his hand. The weight of it feels comforting and safe, but he knows that's bogus. There's nothing safe about what he's considering, and the comfort offered is false. A part of him wants both anyway.

With his thumbnail he eases the lid up and off, then takes out the cotton ball. Small white shapes gleam against translucent orange plastic. It would be the simplest thing in the world to shake out two or three pills, put them in his mouth, dry-swallow them and wait for the pain to fade . . . except he isn't in physical distress. His leg aches, but the pregabalin Gene has him on is fairly effective at dulling the constant sharp keening of damaged nerves, aside from the inevitable breakthrough pain if he stands too long or walks too much. He's even got meds for that, if he needs them.

No, this is purely psychological. Now he can no longer plausibly deny that some of what he feels is all in his head, as the cliché goes. He opened a Pandora's box today, though he hadn't intended to. He'd told Sarah his dream, and in the telling it became real again. He cannot bear the memory of the hope and joy he felt because it doesn't matter, he can't sustain any of it; those feelings are the remnant of a fool's fantasy. And yet he cannot push them away, because he wants to have those feelings again. He wants to keep them, though he knows they will have butterfly lives, they'll fade and die in his hands even as he tries to hold them.

So here he sits, impotent and fearful by turns, torn by two conflicting desires: to feel something beyond emptiness, and wanting to make everything go away. The Vicodin will do that for him; he'll be numb for a few hours, long enough to help him sleep without dreams.

But he _wants_ to dream, damn it. He _wants_ a place where he can love a woman and not fuck things up the way he always does, where he can know peace and not feel like a hypocritical fraud for doing so. He wants to uncap that well deep within, that place he's always kept locked down tight, and let it break open for once without someone telling him it's wrong.

It is reckless to seek this. Experience has proven time and again that emotions screw with his deductive reasoning; even worse, his are always so intense, so powerful they wipe everything else out of existence. He isn't sure he can keep them in check—and that is what truly terrifies him. If life is bad now, it would be a thousand times worse if he ended up like the idiots around him, at the mercy of every feeling passing through.

_Real men don't cry or laugh at the drop of a hat,_ his father whispers in his memory. _You're a sissy, Gregory, a weak sister, a goddamn queer. You're a disgrace to the family. I'm embarrassed to be your father. Grow a pair and stop whining._

There are tears trembling in his lashes. This is the second time he's cried today; that's twice as much as he's wept in the last ten years. It is utter weakness, he knows it; it's not going to end well, allowing sentimental drivel to push him into this freakish display, but he lets the salt-water leak out of his eyes anyway.

After a while he replaces the cotton and lid and tucks the bottle back inside the socks in his duffel. From the living room he hears the sound of a guitar. His analyst is playing him to sleep, as she has done every night for the last week or so. He remembers his mother at the piano in the evenings, usually when his father was away. Often she'd played for hours, and now he wonders if it was her way of pushing aside her own pain. He never once heard her complain about anything, even when Dad was critical of every tiny flaw, but he knows she must have felt humiliated, vulnerable. _And trapped. _ He's never thought of that before. What must it have been like to be given no choice except to stand between two combatants? Loving both of them, unable to give complete loyalty to one without losing the other, but also knowing that to stand with the stronger fighter would protect the weaker, even as it alienated the one she tried to shield . . . trapped indeed.

_Sarah will want to talk to Mom now._ The thought slides into his mind as he lies there. He cringes away from the inevitable confrontation a visit would cause. He doesn't want her here, bringing the ugliness of his past into what has become the first real sanctuary he's ever known. He's not sure he will survive the process. He also doesn't want to hurt his mother more than he already has. If she comes here, that would be inevitable.

As he battles his ghosts, he hears Sarah singing. Her clear alto voice brings the words to life. He listens to the verse. His cheeks are still wet, but after a while he smiles a little. He understands what she is telling him. Sleep slowly steals him away, his mind filled with the image of sails billowing under a stormy sky.


	6. Chapter 6

_January 17__th_

_7 p.m._

"I've been asked to go to Haiti."

Sarah placed the last plate in the dishwasher, closed the door, turned it on and faced Gene. He sat at the dinner table, watching her. Slowly she crossed the kitchen and sat down next to him. _He just got home, _she thought, but said only "When would you leave?"

"The twenty-third." His gaze was searching. "What are you thinking?"

She reached out to take his hand. "You'll miss Imbolc," she said, and had to wait until her voice was steady once more. "They need you."

"You need me too," he said. His thumb stroked the back of her hand. "We haven't seen much of each other in the last couple of months."

"True on both counts," she said softly. "How long?"

"We're working with Doctors Without Borders, and they want all teams rotated every sixty days." Gene sighed. "At least it's not unpaid leave. I have twelve weeks of vacation and six of personal time stacked up."

Sarah kept her eyes on their hands. "What about supplies? Can you bring what you need?"

"They've got stuff coming in, but it's safe to say anything we can take will put us that much farther ahead. Apparently it's still hard as hell to get into Port au Prince or the interior of the country. The roads are a mess and the red tape is even worse."

Sarah nodded. She let go of his hand and to retrieve her purse from the coat rack by the mudroom door. As Gene watched she wrote a check, then handed it to him. He read the total, his eyes widening a bit.

"This is half your severance pay."

Sarah offered him a smile. "Use it however you see fit."

He put the check on the table. "If we decide to do this, finances will be tight for a while. We'll be down to essentials."

"It's the only way I can help," she said. "We'll be all right, if we're careful. It's nothing we haven't gone through before." She fell silent for a few moments. "Let's sell the house in town."

"That's a big step," Gene said finally.

"We've been thinking about it for ages anyway." Sarah sat back a bit. "Unless it would make things more difficult for you. It's a pain getting in and out of here in the winter."

"No worse than it would be if we were living in Nebraska," Gene said, and stopped as Greg came to stand by the table.

"You're both _idiots_," he said, glaring at them. Sarah wondered how long he'd been listening. He looked annoyed, and that intrigued her.

"Why?" She kept her tone mild.

"It's obvious as hell but I'll spell it out for you anyway, since you seem to need some guidance," Greg said. "Going into Haiti at this point means exposure to infectious disease of every description, and that's not the worst of it. The whole country will be in chaos for months. Not to mention the fact your husband's specialty is pain management. He'll be useless. Besides, he's supposed to be monitoring my progress."

"I dealt with this kind of thing in Somalia," Gene said. "My CPR certification is up to date and I know a little about basic first aid, being an MD and all. I'll bring a case of hand sanitizer and plenty of N95s if that makes you feel better. As for keeping an eye on how you're doing, there are these new-fangled things called phones. You can take them anywhere and get in touch with people instantly. It's amazing."

Greg took a chair opposite them and sat down slowly. He watched Gene as if he were a poisonous snake about to strike. "You're a jarhead."

"Once upon a time, yeah," Gene said.

Greg kept a wary eye on Gene as he spoke to Sarah. "You're buying this plan he's selling? Because I have to tell you, it's complete garbage."

"Why?" Sarah asked again.

"What are you, four years old?" Greg folded his arms and leaned back. "You think if your husband puts himself in harm's way and you both land at the brink of insolvency, you'll make a difference somehow. That's really cute and all, but it's still majorly _stupid_."

"It bothers you that I was a Marine," Gene said. Greg said nothing, but his expression spoke volumes. "If it helps, enlisting was a mistake. I'm not military material."

"Once a Marine, always a Marine," Greg said. It sounded as if he was quoting someone. "Why two tours then?"

"Didn't say I wasn't stubborn," Gene said. "Fresh out of college, obnoxiously idealistic . . ."

"Yeah, you've clearly changed." Greg gave Sarah a quick look. "And you're enabling this behavior?"

"I'm supporting his decision to go, yes," Sarah said.

"But you don't like it." Greg sounded triumphant.

"Of course I'm worried about the danger." She felt Gene's touch on her shoulder and brought her hand up to cover his. "If I asked him not to go, he wouldn't."

"But you're not going to ask." Greg shook his head and started to rise. Sarah glanced at Gene and gave a slight nod. Gene hesitated, then spoke.

"We could use a third opinion on some options we're discussing," he said. "Stay and talk with us."

Greg stared at them both. "Don't patronize me," he said, his voice rough.

"We have serious decisions to make," Sarah said. "You live here too and what we decide affects you, so you have a say in what happens."

Greg resumed his seat. He looked from Gene to her. Hostility was tempered with uncertainty now in that diamond-bright gaze. "Whatever," he said.

"Okay." Gene let his hand drift down Sarah's arm to grasp her cold fingers. "Here's what we're looking at . . ."

It was growing late by the time they all fell silent, tired and talked out.

"So we have a plan," Gene said. He slid his hand across Sarah's shoulders, rubbing gently. She leaned into his touch, letting him ease the ache in her neck.

"You mean we have a fallback option for when the shit hits the fan," Greg said, and finished his beer. Sarah noted his use of the term 'we' with secret satisfaction.

"Otherwise known as a plan," Gene said, his tone dry.

"Only if all the pieces fall in place."Greg turned his empty bottle in an idle circle. "The 'if' in that sentence is spelled in flaming red letters six feet tall, in case you hadn't noticed."

"There's no need to borrow trouble," Sarah said. "We can work on fine points tomorrow."

"And on that note I'll say goodnight," Gene said. He stood and stretched, bent down to kiss Sarah, and exited the kitchen. Silence fell. She was about to follow her husband when Greg said,

"I guess you think that little exercise in inclusion will work miracles." He tilted his head. "Very clever, asking me to help out."

"Glad we agree," Sarah said, and smiled when Greg snorted. "Is Gene's having been a Marine going to cause problems?"

All the amusement left Greg's features. "Nope."

Sarah studied him for a moment. "Okay," she said.

"Why do you do that?" He sat up. "You think if you walk away, I'll be compelled to follow and spill my guts to get your attention? It won't work."

"You always have my attention," Sarah said.

"Oh, nicely played." Greg smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. "Said it before--once a Marine, always a Marine."

"Gene is different." She couldn't help but defend her husband, though she understood Greg would never believe her.

"Yeah, sure." One corner of Greg's mouth lifted in a smirk. "Oorah."

"Gene grew up on a farm in a big family," Sarah said. "He was raised by a father who served in World War Two. Several of his brothers went into the military, so he followed them. He knew by the end of boot camp it was a mistake, but he said it himself—he's stubborn. He also didn't want to disappoint his parents." She rubbed the dull ache in her arm.

"So he was inspired to help people with their pain during his enlistment." Greg rolled his eyes. "That's just so selflessly idealistic it gives me cramps. Gee, how ironic."

"He learned from his mistake," Sarah said quietly. "It hasn't been easy for him. His father was deeply disappointed when Gene left the service. They had several bitter fights about it. Half the family won't speak to him now because his dad's decided he's a failure." She folded her arm across her middle. "And he married me."

"What's that got to do with anything?" Greg's voice sharpened.

"His parents had someone picked out, a nice girl. Gene defied them and chose me." She set aside the memories of their wedding, the empty church and no reception. "He understands what it's like to struggle with the divide between expectations and reality."

"You being the reality," Greg said. "His family decided you were a distant second best."

Sarah laughed. "Oh, they did a lot more than that. At one point they staged an intervention. They were ready to kidnap Gene and take him back to Nebraska to remove him from my evil influence."

Greg snorted. "No shit."

"His dad threw down an ultimatum—me or them." She sighed softly. "Gene sees his brothers occasionally, but we don't get invited to family reunions or holidays." She got to her feet. "He says it's worth it. I try hard to make sure it is, because I know for sure _he's_ worth it."

"My blood sugar's climbing as we speak," Greg said. "I'm sure Lifetime will buy the rights to the story and solve all your problems."

Sarah smiled at the thought. "Now that would be an adventure," she said. Her smile faded. "Don't judge Gene on the strength of one bad choice," she said quietly. "Look at the other things he's done, and consider the whole man." She folded the seed list and tucked it into the catalog. "We're not here to be perfect, Greg. We're supposed to make mistakes."

"That's a great line to fall back on when you fuck things up. The problem is, no one else believes it," Greg said. "And it doesn't do jack when you're standing before the court of Reality, pleading your case." He tilted his head, watching her. "You think his marrying you was a mistake."

"I think he gave up too much for me," she said. "I do my best to make it a worthwhile tradeoff. Since I love him, it's not hard. But there are times when all the love in the world doesn't make up for what he's lost." Sarah put the catalogs in a neat stack. "You're going to make mistakes, Greg. It's what you do after you make them that counts." She offered him a brief smile. "Goodnight," she said, and left him contemplating the tabletop.


	7. Chapter 7

_**(A/N: thanks for all the positive reviews, y'all really make my day! :) **_

_**I encourage everyone to contribute to your charity of choice to help in the relief effort for Haiti. In the weeks and months to come, donations will be needed more than ever. Even a few dollars makes a difference. --B)  
**_

_January 18__th_

_10 a.m._

Gene was halfway through Sarah's seed list, adding his own comments and suggestions to her selections, when someone knocked at the front door. He got up to answer, his thoughts preoccupied with the merits of Amish Paste versus San Marzano tomatoes, and was a bit surprised to find the Hutch brothers standing on his doorstep.

"Morning," he said. "What's up, boys?"

"Gene," Tony said, nodding. "Morning. Got a delivery here for a G. House."

Fifteen minutes later the item sat in the middle of the living room. It was a small writing desk made of oak, quite obviously an antique. Gene stared at it, puzzled. It didn't seem to be House's taste . . . He shrugged and took the paperwork Rick handed him, signed for the delivery, and invited both men into the kitchen for some hot coffee and cinnamon rolls.

"Looks like we'll be moving up here permanently," Gene said over the impromptu breakfast. "We're selling the other house."

"Good idea," Tony said. He broke a roll in half and munched, licking his fingers. "Any time Sarah wants a job, let me know. She's always welcome at the bakery."

"Your friend looking for work?" Rick asked.

Gene hid a smile. _Ahah,_ he thought. _Business combined with a fishing expedition. Gotta love small towns._ "He's on sabbatical," he said, enjoying himself. "Work's about the last thing on his mind right now."

"Lucky bastard," Rick said, looking a little envious. "What's he do?"

"At the moment, nothing." House spoke from the entrance to the living room. He gave Gene a glance, then took a clean mug from the rack and went to the coffeemaker. It was obvious he'd just gotten up, his sweats and tee shirt wrinkled.

"Nice desk," Tony said. He watched House without appearing to do so. "One of the better pieces in the sale. We're pretty sure it's authentic. There's a small repair to the back of the drawer, otherwise it all appears to be original."

House stirred some sugar into his coffee. "You guys pickers?"

Tony and Rick exchanged a look. "Yeah," Rick said. "Looking for something?"

"Desk," House said. "Plenty of knee room. Solid wood, clean lines, veneer's okay but no crap."

"You're on," Tony said. "Wanna come with? We're out most weekends."

"Love to, but I'll be needed here." House sipped his coffee. "The man of the house is headed for Haiti. Somebody has to keep tabs on things."

"Good to know," Tony said. He gave House a speculative glance. "If you need help with anything we're just across the village."

"You're going into that mess?" Rick shook his head at Gene and finished a last bite of roll.

"It's a chance to be of use where it's needed most," Gene said, and steered the conversation into more general channels. House said nothing, only chose a roll and poured more coffee for himself.

In due course the desk was moved to a spot outside the door of the new office. "I'm pretty sure Sarah wants to put down a carpet," Gene said.

"We have some oriental rugs at the storefront," Tony said. "They're in decent condition."

"I'll tell her." Gene saw them out, exchanging a few more tidbits of village gossip along the way, and returned to Sarah's list. He sat slowly, looking down at the paper without seeing it.

"Sabbatical," House said. He stood by the table. His gaze was hard and bright.

"Technically true," Gene said.

"It also avoids all those messy explanations about why you've got a wack job living in your home."

"I don't consider you to be a wack job," Gene said quietly. "You're not pissed off about what I said though, are you?" He set Sarah's paperwork aside. "It's the whole military thing. You won't trust me to take care of your pain management now, just because I spent four years in the Marines."

"My dad was a fine example of the type," House said. "I tend to use him as a measure because he made quite an impression, in more ways than one."

"I don't know about your dad, but if he was anything like my old man then he was a total bastard," Gene said. "It doesn't necessarily follow that I'm one just because I went through boot camp, however."

"You know, I keep hearing this weird noise," House said. "Like someone shoveling big piles of bullshit."

"Actually manure sounds more like a bell," Gene said. "_Dung_."

Some of the anger left House's glare. "Nice."

Gene dipped his head in acknowledgement. He traced a circle on the tabletop with his thumb. "Learned a lot in those four years, the main lesson being I am pretty thoroughly civilian, and happy to be so." He fell silent a moment. "The only good thing to come out of two tours was deciding to go to medical school."

"You saw all the pain in the world and decided to brighten your little corner?" House rolled his eyes. "Somehow the words 'obnoxiously idealistic' come to mind."

"I said it first," Gene said. He stretched and finished off his coffee. "You bought the desk for Sarah?"

House made a dismissive gesture. "It's nothing." He turned to go and paused. "What rank?"

"Aw, man," Gene groaned. "Don't."

"What. Rank?"

"_Shit_." Gene put a hand over his eyes. "If I don't tell you you'll find out somehow, so fine." He hesitated, reluctant to say it. "Gunnery sergeant."

"Hah! I _knew_ it!" House faced him. "Gunney."

"No way! You're not calling me that!"

"Up my meds and I'll keep my trap shut, otherwise . . ." House gave him an evil smile. "Oorah all day long."

"No deal," Gene said, appalled and determined not to show it. "Do your worst."

"Oh, you really don't want to say that," House said.

"Fine by me then, wack job," Gene said. House made a sound that could have been a laugh.

"Now we understand each other," he said, and limped away.


	8. Chapter 8

_**(A/N: I'd written this chapter a while back, but 'Moving the Chains' gave me a few ideas to jump things up a bit. Enjoy and please review, it would make my day. --B)**_

_January 18__th_

_8 p.m._

Sarah took off her apron, pulled her hair free of its holder and bundled into the thick sweater she usually wore around the house. Chores were done for the day; she could relax and check out some tv.

She headed into the living room to find Greg settled on the couch, absorbed in a scene where two impossibly gorgeous and barely clad young women kissed each other with enthusiastic abandon. On a silent sigh Sarah turned back to the dining room and opened her laptop, still set up at one end of the table. _Might as well check my email. _She tucked a curl behind her ear and eased into the hard chair, rubbing her arm. Her scars were aching; a storm was on the way.

Five messages in, she jumped when someone spoke behind her.

"You could have asked me to change the channel," Greg said. "Why didn't you?"

"You were busy," she said, turning to face him.

"I was observing, not participating." His gaze narrowed. "You feel obligated."

Sarah gave him a questioning look. "I don't understand."

"The damn desk!" he growled. "If I'd known this was going to happen I wouldn't have gotten it."

"I'm just done with chores and was looking for something to do," Sarah said. "You had the tv first. Anyway, since when have you objected to someone feeling beholden to you? I thought that was all part of your master plan to divide and conquer."

"Blah blah," he made a yakking motion with his hand. "Don't try to distract me with minor details. The mighty wind of truth is here to blow down your straw house, little pig."

Sarah paused as she was about to refute his statement. "You know," she said slowly, "you're right."

"Of course I am," Greg said, but he looked a bit surprised. "So what are you gonna do about it? Besides add the phrase 'obvious to everyone but me' to your vocabulary."

She closed her laptop and stood. "I don't owe you, so I can claim some viewing time? Great. There's a Little House on the Prairie marathon on TV Land," she said, and laughed at the look of pure horror her choice elicited.

It was a tease, of course. She grabbed a ginger beer from the fridge, settled on the couch and changed the channel to TCM. Greg folded his lean frame into a comfortable chair next to her, a bag of cheese curls perched invitingly atop his thighs.

"It's in black and white," he said as the titles came up. "BO-ring."

"'Out of the Past' is a classic," Sarah said. "Awesome movie."

"I never figured you for a noir freak," Greg said.

"Are you kidding? There's every neurosis known to man, plus action, snappy dialogue, and risqué moments galore. What's not to like?"

"It doesn't end well," Greg pointed out. "Total downer."

"That depends on how you interpret the story," Sarah said.

"Getting killed isn't a downer?" Greg snorted. "Remind me never to go sky-diving with you."

"Jeff Bailey walked away from his old life and tried to make a better one for himself," Sarah said.

"Didn't work," Greg said. "He ended up right back where he started."

"But did he?" Sarah took the throw from the back of the couch and draped it over her legs. "I think the act of moving away from his past changed him in ways he never understood fully. Intent counts, you know."

"Bullshit. That's New Age psychobabble. Results are what count," Greg said.

"Intent shapes action," Sarah said. "Simply going through the motions with no plan behind them is a waste of time and energy."

"You've just described working conditions for a majority of the human population," Greg said. Sarah chuckled.

"Yes, but that doesn't make what you're saying any more correct. We're not talking about what you do for a living, we're talking about personal actions."

"Same thing," Greg said. Sarah gave him a shrewd look.

"Watch the movie," she said, smiling. Greg rolled his eyes but didn't answer.

"I wanted to ask you something," Sarah said after a time.

"Here it comes," Greg said in a long-suffering tone.

"Are you okay with the plan we worked out last night?"

He stared at her as if she had two heads. "What difference does it make?"

"We weren't humoring you, you know," she said. "We really do need your help."

"It's all good," he said, clearly wanting to end the discussion. Sarah seized the opportunity his inattention afforded and swiped the cheese curls. "Hey!"

"Nice try, but I'm not putting my hand in your lap," she said, and munched some curls. "Mmm . . . cheesy poofs."

House snatched the bag away from her. "You never let me have any fun. If I'm gonna be the man of the house while Gunney's away, I should get conjugal rights."

"Not in this lifetime," Sarah said, and licked the cheese powder from her fingers. "That's what girlfriends are for."

"Nice work if you can get it," House pointed out. He wouldn't look at her. "Hookers are easier. Fifty bucks and a rubber et voila, instant date. No muss, no fuss."

"BO-ring," Sarah said, mimicking him. "Nothing beats dinner and a movie when you know you're headed home afterwards to mess up the sheets and share breakfast." She settled back and took a sip of ginger beer. "Anyway, I just wanted to make sure you're good with what we talked about—"

"Yeah, yeah, everything's peachy," he said as the phone rang. Sarah got up to answer it. The caller ID showed an unfamiliar name.

"Do you know a Lucas Douglas?" she asked. After a moment House rose to his feet, his hand outstretched. Sarah gave him the phone and he moved past her into his bedroom, closing the door behind him.


	9. Chapter 9

_**(A/N: I had planned several weeks ago to have Lucas enter the picture in this story, so having him show up in 'Moving the Chains' was oddly gratifying, even though his actions were reprehensible. I took the canon storyline as permission to make my version of Lucas a bit more . . . willing to go the second mile and not in a good way. Enjoy, and please review, it would really make my day. I have to go out and shovel the first round of nor'easter snow after posting this. Reviews will help keep my spirits up! Well, that and some Bailey's in my hot cocoa! ;) --B)**_

_January 18__th_

_9 p.m._

"Lucas." Greg shuts the door and perches on his unmade bed. He keeps his voice cool and a little impatient. Inwardly he's got alarms going off all over the place. Either Wilson gave out Sarah's home phone number, or more likely Lucas dug it up himself and now knows exactly where Greg is staying. However the information was discovered, this does not bode well. The kid wouldn't be calling if there wasn't some good reason, and that's what worries him—the reason. His situation is prime blackmail material for an enterprising young private investigator with few scruples and an empty bank account.

"Hey House! How are things going for you up there in the great white north?" The younger man sounds odd. He's nervous and talkative by nature, but now there's a strange sort of undertone that puts Greg on high alert.

"I'm having the time of my life shoveling driveways," he says.

"Ha ha ha ha, that's pretty good!" Lucas actually giggles. "I bet all the snowmen in your yard have tits."

_Is he having the house surveiled?_ Greg thinks. Aloud he says "Then they wouldn't be snow_men_."

"Good point, good point. So, you coming back anytime soon? Princeton's pretty quiet without you."

"I'm on sabbatical," Greg says. "If this is about that last payment on your retainer—"

"Yeah, see, that's the thing." Lucas interrupts him. "You're not really on sabbatical, are you? Not unless that's what they're calling voluntary commitment nowadays. Of course you're not in Mayfield any longer, but you're still staying with your shrink. That's an interesting situation, how'd that happen? I bet her husband's loving every minute of having you there, especially after you got her fired."

The first thing that comes into Greg's head is _Wilson._ But that makes no sense—why would Wilson spill the beans to someone he's never even met? That familiar clenching feeling deep inside is back, stronger than ever.

"Field experiment," he says.

"Complete with relapses," Lucas says. "What is it, a prank on your analyst? Can't be for a patient. You don't have any, since you're unemployed too."

"It's a new cable reality show. I'm calling it _A Thousand Paper Cuts._" He is gripping the phone, waiting.

"Ha ha, great title! I'll have to tell Lisa, she always did appreciate your sense of humor. Well, sometimes. Okay, not that often, but there's no accounting for taste." There is a gleeful, malicious satisfaction in the statement.

"So she's drawn you into her lair," Greg says after a moment, struggling to keep his tone light, casual. _Lisa,_ he thinks, and fights hard to focus his concentration.

"No, actually she came to me," Lucas says. "We've been together since the beginning of November."

Greg closes his eyes. "And you're still intact? Impressive."

"She's tough but she isn't a man-killer," Lucas says. "And definitely not a one night stand." There is a noise in the background—a toddler's cry. "Oops, have to go. Wilson says hi, by the way."

Humiliation and fury burn through Greg like a wildfire. _He knew. All this time, he knew. _ "I'll bet Uncle Enabler's a model babysitter. Too bad he's a pedophile."

Lucas laughs. "Good one, but I checked his rap sheet and he's clean, at least for molestation. That arrest in Louisiana, what the hell was that about? You guys get a little too wild in New Orleans? So those rumors about you two are true after all?" When Greg says nothing he keeps going. "Anyway, it's great that he doesn't have a love life since you killed his girlfriend. Now he's usually available on weekends. That's why he hasn't been up to see you lately. We've been making Saturday night dates a regular thing and he feels the same way we do, taking care of the baby comes before anything or anyone else."

"You two crazy kids," Greg says. "Give that adorable little future crack whore a kiss from me. Here's hoping Cuddy's getting good marks in her Castrating Psycho-Warbitch From Hell master course. Bye." He hangs up and dumps the phone on the bed, then reaches across to the nightstand, takes his cell from its charger and dials Wilson's number. It goes to voicemail after four rings. He leaves a short, simple message.

"You _bastard_."

He sits there for several minutes, teeth gritted as he battles rage, bewilderment and pain so deep it feels like his heart is splitting in two. His first impulse is to grab a vehicle and head to Princeton. He's not exactly sure why he wants to do that; he certainly doesn't need to see Cuddy and Lucas shacked up together, and going anywhere near Wilson right now would result in assault charges, if not attempted murder.

After a time he retrieves the duffel bag and rummages through its contents to find the socks with the bottle hidden in them. He takes the Vicodin out, pops the lid, removes the cotton and shakes out a couple of tabs. He wants very badly to take four or five to get the full effect, but he's been detoxed long enough to make a dose that big too strong, and also too noticeable. And he has to ration; this is the end of his stash unless he can find some way to get more. Small towns have sources for drugs, he knows that very well, but accessing those sources will be difficult and gossip will inevitably make the rounds and screw him over. It's better to be cautious. Two tabs will be enough to help him calm down and numb out a little without rousing suspicion.

Before he allows himself time to think, he dry-swallows the pills. The familiar bitter-sweet taste spreads over his tongue and he savors it, horrible as it is, because it means relief is on the way. After a few moments he closes up the bottle and stuffs it in its hiding place, picks up the cordless phone and goes into the living room. Normally he wouldn't care if the battery runs down overnight, but he doesn't want to give Sarah a reason to come into his room. She hasn't broken her promise yet, but he fears discovery of his stash above all else, and fear is an excellent motivator. Self-loathing fills him for a moment; then it is gone.

"Everything okay?" Sarah glances up at him as he passes by her.

"Fine." He puts the phone on the base. "I'm gonna turn in, it's been a long day."

"Are you all right?" Sarah's quiet voice stops him, but only for a moment.

"Just tired." It's not quite a lie; he feels a heavy weariness settling into him like lead.

"You sure you don't want to talk? You seem upset—"

"I'm fine, dammit!" He hadn't meant to snap at her. "It was someone calling about some maintenance on Baker Street. Nothing important."

"Okay." She is watching him, he knows it but he can't look at her. "Sleep well."

He limps off to his room, feeling the first tendrils of euphoria stealing through his mind, disgusted and deeply ashamed that he welcomes them with such anticipation.


	10. Chapter 10

_January 18__th_

_10:30 p.m._

"You _bastard__._"

Wilson paced across the bedroom and listened to House's voicemail again, wincing at the pain under the raw fury in those two words.

_Shit! Shit shit __shit__!_ What the hell was Cuddy thinking, calling House and letting the cat out of the bag? What part of 'unstable' did she not understand? Did she _want_ a madman on her doorstep?

_Oh god . . . what if he's driving down here right now? _Wilson shuddered. There was no point in calling House back; he'd either not answer or lie about his actions. That left contacting Sarah.

It was Gene who answered, however. "Jim, what's up?"

"I need to speak with Sarah," Wilson said, unable to hide his resignation. "I'm sorry to call so late, but this is important."

"Okay, she's right here." Wilson waited through the rustle of bedclothes, a brief exchange, then Sarah's voice on the line, a little sleepy but clear and soft.

"Hey Jim, what's going on? Are you okay?"

Just for a moment he remembered nights when they'd talked into the small hours together, snuggled under the covers or on the couch with the tv flickering. The sweetness of those moments still caught him now and then when he heard her like this, the faint twang of her accent a bit stronger than usual because she was newly awake. His guilt increased at her concern over his well-being, but he pushed his reluctance aside and told her the situation, cringing at her silence as he stumbled and hesitated and finally got it all out.

"Let me get this straight," she said when it was clear he was done. "Doctor Cuddy's found someone else. She decides initially to say nothing about it to the man who's been obsessed with her for a coon's age, a man she knows is recovering from a breakdown, working hard to stay clean after years of addiction, and still in love with her. His best friend, who also knows all of this, doesn't tell him either."

"Sarah, come on!" Wilson said in exasperation.

No, it's okay. I understand that to a point. You both had a tough choice with no good options either way. But then out of the blue, Cuddy decides to blindside this same man and apparently cause as much damage as possible because she's got some sudden jones to be honest and open." She paused. "What the _hell_ is going on down there?"

"When—when you put it like that it sounds—it sounds bad," Wilson said.

"It sounds bad because it _is_ bad!" she snapped. "Y'all all couldn't have done a better job of messing things up if you tried!"

Wilson sighed. "I wanted to tell House, but Cuddy asked me not to. She was afraid he would try to break up her relationship with Lucas. He's capable of doing it, you know. I don't know why she decided to say something now. It doesn't make sense to me either, unless it's because there's physical distance between them and she feels like it's safe now."

"She's been dealing with him for years and she can't stand up to him unless he's too far away to do any immediate damage? That's an unbelievably impractical mindset for someone running a hospital. And it's damn naïve to think distance would discourage Greg in any way." Sarah gave an angry laugh. "Well, why should she worry? She's got you running interference for her."

"Hey, that's not fair!" Wilson felt his own temper rising. "I didn't have to call, you know."

"You're covering your ass, don't pretend to anything nobler than that! I know you, Jim. You're a good negotiator and an excellent peacemaker, but you're also afraid of confrontations when you're emotionally invested and you'll do anything to avoid them."

"Don't you dare analyze me!" he said, his voice growing in volume as his anger and guilt flared. "I've known House a lot longer than you have, I'm well aware what he's capable of—you aren't! Cuddy's trying to make a family and House would have no compunction about destroying her dream if it suited his purposes! Dammit Sare, he killed Amber! What more proof do you need?"

There was a long silence. Wilson swallowed on a dry throat, utterly appalled at what he'd just blurted out. _I don't believe that,_ he thought. _I really don't believe that. So why did I say it? _"I didn't mean that," he said aloud.

"Yeah, you did." Sarah sounded distant, her voice dark with sadness. "No wonder you let Cuddy trash my patient." She sighed. "You need to talk to your analyst about this, Jim."

"Wow. That should make for an interesting session." House's voice on the line was a shock Wilson felt all the way to his toes. "I can hear it now. 'Hey doc, did I ever tell you about the time my junkie BFF killed my woman? I got to drill a hole in his brain to let all the bad gris-gris out, it really got my rocks off.'"

"House . . ." He faltered, at a complete loss for words. _Why isn't Sarah stopping him? _

"By the way, Wilson's right." House radiated false bonhomie. "I'm good with taking a joyride down to Princeton and stomping on Cuddy's cosy little love nest. I could even do it from here with a few well-placed phone calls. Of course I'd lose my license permanently and never work again, but it might be worth it."

"There's a child involved," Wilson said, desperate to put a halt to this slide into madness. "You destroy her family, she'll be sent into the foster care system. Would you really visit that on her?"

"You think it's better she grows up with the Jerkface-Weasels? _Seriously_?" House asked, all concern now. "You really believe Mommy's bestest widdle girl should have the chance to get her twat pierced, do crystal meth and screw the entire football team just to piss off her parents when she hits puberty? Some model babysitter you are. Then again, if I got to record it all and sell the rights to TLC . . . Let me make some calls, get back to you. You do have a camcorder, right? We'll need it. Actually, one of those pinhole videocams would be cool as hell."

"House . . . don't do this. Please." Even as he spoke Wilson knew it was pointless.

"By the way, you're all laboring under a huge misapprehension. Cuddy didn't call me, her boy-toy did. He's probably got the house wiretapped and is recording everything for his sweetie's amusement as we speak." House snorted. "He's listening in to my listening in . . . how ironic is _that_."

"Okay, that's enough." Sarah's voice was coolly professional now, all the warmth drained away. "Greg, I'm coming downstairs to talk with you about this. Jim . . ." She paused. "From now on I don't want you calling my patient directly. While he's under my care, you talk to me first. You also have to clear any visits through me. That goes for Cuddy and her partner, and anyone else from Princeton-Plainsboro. If you want to tell them, fine. If not I'll be happy to do it myself."

"What the _fuck_!" Wilson got to his feet, outraged. "Why am I getting punished for what those two did?!"

"I'm not punishing anyone. I'm making sure that any further attempts to harm my patient or sabotage his progress stop with me," Sarah said. "Jim, if you allow them to manipulate you like this, I have no choice."

"_Wil_-son's in _trou_-ble," House sang.

"Fuck you," Wilson said under his breath.

"That's _enough_," Sarah said sharply. "Greg, please hang up. Jim, I'll need Doctor Cuddy's home phone number."

"Make Wilson deliver the bad news," House said. "It's only fair."

"_Greg_." Sarah waited. There was an ostentatiously loud click. "Now hang up for real."

"_Jeez_, Mom." And he was gone. Wilson let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding in.

"Doctor Cuddy's number, please," Sarah said. Wilson gave it to her, his mind racing. What would happen now? "Thanks. Okay, here's how things will be set up starting tonight. Your number and anything to do with Cuddy will be blocked on the main phone—"

"Oh come on, Sare!" He couldn't believe she was really going through with this.

"—but if Greg wants to call you or anyone else, he can. I will suggest to Greg that he blocks your number as well as Cuddy's on his cell; it's his decision, but don't be surprised if he does it. If you need to get in touch with me, use my cell. You can give Cuddy my number but if her boyfriend decides to get cute again, I'm more than willing to prosecute for invasion of privacy, harassment and anything else that applies."

"I'm surprised you're not taking him out personally," Wilson said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice. "You're sure having no trouble beating me up."

"You brought this on yourself," Sarah said. Wilson winced at the coolness in her words.

"Yeah, by trying to do the right thing for too many people, as usual," he said. "More fool me."

"James Evan Wilson, when are you going to learn you can't make everyone happy?" She sighed. "I care about you very much, you know that. You also know my first duty is to my patient. He's just beginning to open up. I will not risk his chance to heal. If he loses this one, I don't think he'll be able to try again."

Later, as he lay in bed attempting to relax, Wilson thought of House and Cuddy, of the pain in House's words under the sarcasm, the uncertainty in Cuddy's eyes when she spoke of Lucas. _What a disaster_, he thought, too discouraged to even talk with Amber about it. He knew what she'd tell him anyway—_Sarah's right, you're a fool to think everyone's going to end up living happily ever after. And let Cuddy clean up her own messes. _

"Easy for you to say," he said aloud. "You're dead," and felt the now-familiar pain in his heart at the words. Slowly he rolled on his side and closed his eyes, knowing a long night was ahead.


	11. Chapter 11

_January 19__th_

_10:30 a.m._

When the phone rang, Sarah gave the finished bread dough a final gentle slap, covered it with a tea towel and wiped her hands on her apron. She didn't hurry to answer; Greg was in town with Gene, looking over some odds and ends for the office and picking out a carpet from the stash at the Hutch storefront. Besides, she had a bad feeling about this call, coming so soon on the heels of last night's debacle.

Sure enough, the caller ID read 'Cuddy/PPTH'. Sarah drew in a deep breath, let it out and picked up the phone. "Good morning," she said, and sat down at the kitchen table.

"Good morning. Am I speaking with Doctor Goldman?" The tone was brisk, professional and efficient.

"Yes, this is she," Sarah said._ Here we go._

"Doctor Goldman, this is Doctor Lisa Cuddy. You might remember me from Doctor House's stay in my hospital last October."

"Of course, Doctor Cuddy." _Well, aren't we nicely brought up little girls. Points to you for discreetly alluding to your superior status as a gainfully employed executive administrator. _"I hope you're well."

"I was fine until this morning." A hint of irritation showed in the smooth voice. "Doctor Wilson just left my office. I presume you know why he was here."

"Why don't you tell me what he told you and we'll take it from there, if you don't mind?" Sarah asked, still the essence of politeness.

Cuddy sighed. "Wilson told me some story about Lucas—my—my partner—calling House last night. He said I should talk to you about it."

_I should have known Jim would leave the heavy lifting to me. Weenie. _"Lucas did call, I answered the phone myself. Greg spoke with him in private. He didn't share particulars, but when Doctor Wilson called a bit later I found out that apparently Lucas decided to warn Greg off."

"'Warn him off'? What exactly does that mean?" Cuddy sounded puzzled.

"You tell me," Sarah said with some acerbity.

There was an uncomfortable pause. "Doctor Goldman, I'm not sure what this is all about but I _am_ a busy woman, so if we could cut to the chase it would make my morning a little simpler."

"All right. Here's what I see going on, and you'll forgive me ahead of time for being blunt," Sarah said. "You've decided to find a new romance. That's certainly your privilege. You also decided not to tell Greg about it, for reasons clear only to you. Also your privilege. Everything's hunky-dory until your boyfriend suddenly feels threatened by your ex-relationship with Doctor House for some reason and makes a call, wherein he demonstrates that he not only has a wealth of dirt on my patient, he's willing to use it to keep Greg away from you."

Another silence. "That's quite a story, Doctor Goldman." Cuddy's voice was ice-cold. "And this conjecture is based on . . .?"

"The evidence provided last night," Sarah said. "I spoke with Greg after Lucas's call. I didn't ask him for specifics, but he did confirm that some remarks were made that could be interpreted as threats."

"_Threats_?" Cuddy's anger was clear now. "I've known Greg House a lot longer than you have. He's more than willing to cause trouble to keep himself entertained. Are you certain that isn't the case here?"

Sarah kept her tone neutral, even as her fingers curled into a fist. "No, that is _not_ the case here. I suggest you talk with your partner about this. In the meantime, I'm blocking calls to this line from you or anyone else at Princeton-Plainsboro. If you want to speak with me, please use my cell number. I'm presuming Doctor Wilson gave it to you, if not I'll be happy to provide it. Greg is free to contact whomever he likes."

"Are you suggesting a call from me could cause problems?" Cuddy sounded incredulous.

"I'm not suggesting anything, Doctor. I'm simply making sure my patient isn't t-boned by someone with an agenda." She paused. "Or a clueless ex-friend." _Uh-oh, bad move, Corbett. That was a snotty little jab and you'll pay for making it. _

"You have no right to say that to me! I hired House when no one else would, I gave him a department to run, fellows, an office next to his best friend, for god's sake!" Cuddy's professional smoothness had dissolved. Even worse, there was genuine pain mingled with the anger. "I've put up with lawsuits, cost overruns, endless complaints from staff and patients . . . The man drove away a benefactor with one hundred million dollars and ended up going to trial on drug possession charges. He even aided and abetted the perpetrator during a hostage situation here, destroyed my office and half the Testing and Research floor in the process and I _still_ kept him on! I've risked my own career for him not once but several times. I am NOT a 'clueless ex-friend', as you so charmingly put it!"

"I apologize for that remark, it was uncalled for. It's admirable you did all those things," Sarah said. Cuddy gave an indignant snort.

"'Admirable'!"

"I'm not mocking you. You were loyal to a fault, and that truly is admirable given the circumstances. But things have changed. You've decided to move on. The problem is, Greg doesn't understand that because you haven't told him." Sarah fought to keep her tone neutral. "If you know him as well as you claim to, you also know he tends to obsess over personal relationships. You will not be able to simply make a phone call or walk away and expect him to leave you alone." Even as she said it, understanding brought the puzzle pieces together. "That's what you've been thinking about doing though, isn't it? Did you talk about this with Lucas?"

"That is none of your business!" Cuddy snapped.

"Yeah, you did," Sarah said. She propped her head with her free hand, eyes closed. _How can someone so smart be so damn dumb? _"Don't you see? Your partner knows what you won't acknowledge—that it won't be so simple to get rid of Greg. Lucas made a pre-emptive strike to strengthen the effect of the call _you_ were planning to make sometime this week."

Silence fell. "How did you . . ." Cuddy began, sounding much less strident.

"You were going to ask Greg how he was doing, was he making progress, did he think he'd be coming back to work any time soon? You had to know because you couldn't keep the department on standby forever, et cetera. After he jerked you around for a while and conned you into sparring with him he'd tell you no, he's not coming back, not anytime soon. Then you'd say something like 'gee, that's too bad, see you around', and hang up hoping that would kill the relationship." Sarah rubbed her forehead. "You talked about it with Lucas, probably a casual conversation where you could drop the information without feeling too bad about doing so. And the whole time, in the back of your mind you knew Lucas would do your dirty work for you."

"I . . . I never—"

"And _that_ is why all your numbers will be blocked and you will have to go through me to talk with Greg, unless he calls you himself, which I will discourage." A surge of anger tightened her voice. "Regardless of his past actions, Greg House is my patient and I have a responsibility to offer him the best chance for healing possible. If that means shielding him temporarily from you and anyone else in his past who could stand a few years of therapy themselves, then that's what I'll do."

"If you think he's really trying to get himself clean you're in for a rude awakening," Cuddy said, her tone going from icy to sub-zero. "Once an addict, always an addict. Not to mention he's a master manipulator and doesn't have an ounce of compassion when he's got a game going, and I am here to tell you, he's playing you like a Strad."

"I know he's hurt you deeply." _Stay calm, stay calm, stay calm_. "I also know from personal experience what it's like to go through this process many times with someone you care for. After a while you pull away and stop believing in them because it hurts too much--because they've hurt you too much. You're right, there's ample justification for your anger. Greg House does know how to play games better than anyone else. But that still doesn't mean you get to trash my patient."

"I can't believe you're continuing to make excuses for him after he got you fired!" Cuddy sounded contemptuous now, as if she believed Sarah had lost her mind. "Are you going to wait until he tries to break up your marriage before you figure out he's not interested in being clean and sober?"

Sarah rose from her chair. She was trembling with outrage, her aching arm folded across her middle. "You think you know him, and maybe you have removed a mask or two over the years, but the rest is lip service. From what I've seen you've been perfectly willing to use him for your own purposes, enabling him left right and center, and then blaming him when he does things you don't like or that make you look bad. You might have gone through hell for him and I know you care about him to some extent, but you also wanted him to obsess over you in return so you could flirt and feel desired without having to do the real work involved in a real relationship. I understand he's as guilty of dabbling as you are, I'm not laying blame entirely at your doorstep, but you carry some of it whether you admit to it or not. Unfortunately Greg had the bad taste to go off the rails and spoil everything. Now you've got someone else, and that's great. I don't give a fuzzy pink rodent's backside how the two of you set up your relationship, but understand this: I will stand for Greg House and defend him for as long as he needs me to do so. He is in treatment and attempting to find some healing. That means he's my patient. It also means he is no longer your or anyone else's punching bag. Do I make myself clear?"

Silence. Then Cuddy said "Crystal."

"Excellent. I'm glad we understand each other. Thank you and have a wonderful day, Doctor Cuddy." Sarah clicked off the phone and hurled it at the nearest chair. "_OOOOOHHH!_" She tore off her apron, balled it up and threw it after the phone. "Who the FUCK do y'all think you are, miss High and Mighty!" She kicked the couch and was satisfied to feel it jump under the blow, even as her big toe cracked and pain shot up her calf. "Tellin' me I don't know when I'm bein' played, if that isn't the damn pot callin' the kettle black! I'll take you out and nail your worthless raggedy old spotted hide to the side of the barn and be DONE with y'all, damn miserable COW!"

"_Whoa._"

Sarah turned to find Greg and Gene standing in the front hall. Gene looked wary; Greg looked both shocked and amused. Heat flooded her face as mortification surged through her, augmenting her fury. _So much for objectivity. You blew it big time, you idiot!  
_

"I'm going for a WALK!" she snapped, and turned on her heel. She stormed through the kitchen into the mudroom, stuffed her feet into her boots, snatched her jacket and mittens from their hook and bundled into them. She wrenched the door open and was brought up short by enormous flakes fluttering around her.

"Dammit!" She glanced at Bob's barn down the lane. If she couldn't walk she could at least talk to the horses. _They_ wouldn't try to pass off their shit as anything else but plain old manure, that was for sure. She marched back into the kitchen and crammed her pockets with apples from the bowl on the table, then headed out for an hour's respite. Slamming the door behind her felt _good_.

[H] [H] [H]

Gene winces as the back door slams. When it is clear Sarah is out of the house he advances to the couch, picks up the phone and sets it carefully on the cradle.

"That was fucking _amazing_," Greg says, and means it. He's seen Sarah mad, but never at full eruption. Her hair actually _glowed_. He's heard of the phenomenon before, but dismissed it as poetic license. Now he knows it isn't.

"It's a good idea to stay out of her way for a while when she's got her Irish up and she's mixing her metaphors," Gene says. He gathers her apron and takes it into the kitchen. Greg goes to the phone and checks the caller ID. When Cuddy's name appears he stares at it, disconcerted. After a few moments the morning's events become clear.

_She defended me. _Sarah's anger wasn't personal—it was on his behalf. And a magnificent anger it was too, absolute outrage and fury combined with genuine concern. He holds the phone in his hands, staring down at the caller ID. After a time he sets the receiver in the cradle and goes to the fireplace. He shakes down the logs with the poker, places fresh wood on the renewed flames and stands close, glad of the burgeoning warmth.


	12. Chapter 12

_**(A/N: I think the 'beef vindaloo' once referred to by Stacy could possibly be **_**gosht vindaloo,_ or tart-hot beef with malt vinegar and two forms of cayenne pepper, ground and whole. The recipe can be found in the cookbook _660 Curries, _by Raghavan Iyer. It is a treasure trove of wonderful recipes of all kinds that will make your heart sing and your forehead bead with sweat in some cases!_**

**_Anyway, it is something of a cheat for House to name 'vindaloo' as a specific dish when it's more of a category of curries made with some kind of meat, using vinegar to tone down or mellow the heat of the spices. There's chicken vindaloo, pork, etc. All are definitely on the spicy side, but the beef is loaded with cayenne and best eaten with a big bowl of greek style yogurt and fresh salty _naan_ on hand to save your digestive tract from total immolation!  
_**

**_The three-chile spread does actually exist. I saw it being made on an episode of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives and had to swipe it for my story. The lady who makes it harvests the chiles straight from the plant to the kitchen--it doesn't get any fresher than that. And in case you didn't know, Habaneros RULE. Just wish I could get some decent ones up here in Yankee country. --B)  
_**

_January 21st_

_5:45 p.m._

Greg is in the living room opening a box of books when there is a knock at the front door. He freezes, his head lifting. _Lucas._ His stomach clenches and he grips the box, waiting.

Gene goes to answer the door, journal in hand, his finger marking the place where he stopped reading. "Hey Roz," he says, and Greg relaxes, but only a little. It's a somewhat lesser evil, at least.

"I've got a few minutes so I thought I'd stop by and take a look at the room you want wired." Roz stamps her feet on the mat and removes her gloves as she comes in. She is wearing a forest green parka and shabby jeans and boots, with a faded multi-colored hat perched on her head. When she sees him her expression darkens but she says nothing, only turns away to follow Gene as he leads her to the office. Greg is tempted to stick his tongue out at her. Instead he gets to his feet and trails behind them. When he catches up she is doing a slow turn in the middle of the room.

"It'll be easier to put outlets in the interior walls, of course," she is saying. "Your service can carry them, but you should probably upgrade to two hundred amp. Sarah says you're considering getting a chest freezer." Roz pulls a tape measure from her coat pocket. "You could easily go off-grid if you put in a combination of windmill and solar panels. I have a line on the new thin-film technology, it would be perfect for you here. Bob's generating enough juice at his place to sell some of it back to the co-op."

"That's what we've been thinking too," Gene says. "We can work on it this spring. I'll be home by the end of March at the latest, if everything goes according to plan."

"Yeah, well you know how that usually works." Roz measures a wall. Her movements are relaxed, quick and efficient; she knows what she's doing. "I'll send you the specs. It'll give you something to take your mind off things." She snaps the tape measure shut and tucks it into its hiding place in her coat, rummages in another pocket and produces a small pad and pencil. She scribbles a few notes. "Anything else while I'm here?"

"Yes. You can stay to dinner," Sarah says behind them. Roz's angular face lights up. Greg cannot believe the transformation. She is actually something approaching pretty when she smiles. There are dimples in her cheeks and her eyes sparkle and she looks a lot younger. _Huh_, he thinks. _Miracles can happen._

"That depends," Roz says. A teasing note lightens her rather sardonic tone. "Whatcha havin'?"

"Gene's calling the shots this week, so tonight we're doing burgers with three-chile spread and some homemade slaw." Sarah sounds happy. Greg feels a stab of something like shame because she's been worried about him, upset over what happened earlier in the week and anxious because Gene is leaving; he knows all of that and can do nothing to make her feel better.

"Three-chile spread—that nuclear stuff Gene gets in Texas? Awesome!" Roz shrugs out of her coat. "Tell you what, next time I come out I'll bring some meatball sandwiches with provolone and an extra jar of Lou's marinara."

"You don't have to trade," Sarah says as she takes Roz's parka and hat, "but if you're offering I won't pass it up. Supper's on in fifteen minutes." She moves to the front hall closet to hang up the coat, still favoring her right foot a bit.

"What happened? You're limping." Roz's voice is sharp. Greg hears the concern in it and is intrigued. He hadn't figured her for someone who cared about others to that extent.

"I lost my temper," Sarah says. "Kicked the couch."

"_Cool_," Roz says, smiling. "I'd've liked to see that."

The meal is a much more relaxed experience than Greg thought it would be, at least initially. Sarah has a knack for putting people at ease, he knows that very well by now. The kitchen radio is playing in the background; everything is set out buffet style, with a big basket of fresh, hot home fries and bottles of cold beer to accompany the burgers on grilled sourdough rolls. He piles his plate and gives the much-vaunted spread a taste. It is way beyond nuclear; he wonders how the glass jar hasn't melted from holding it. Well-used to the searing heat of vindaloo beef, he slathers the spread on his burger, takes some fries, and sets to work.

Ten minutes later sweat is running down his spine and his entire upper digestive tract is on fire. He grabs his beer and takes a huge slug, wincing as the blast-furnace heat intensifies for a moment, then fades somewhat. It is pure heaven.

"Wow, ten minutes," Sarah says, and gives him a grin. "That's the second-best time."

He downs another swallow of beer. "'Time'?"

"Between the first bite and the first drink," Gene says, smiling. "I've got you beat by two minutes."

"Yeah, but you cheat," Roz says. Her face is flushed. "You've been eating this stuff for years."

"So what's your secret?" Sarah asks Greg. He gives a loud belch and wipes the sweat from his forehead with his sleeve.

"Vindaloo," he says. Roz looks blank. Gene looks impressed.

"Holy crow," he says. "Masochist."

"What's that?" Roz asks. Greg stares at her.

"You're kidding."

"I wouldn't ask if I already knew," she says, and frowns at him. "What is it?"

"The Indian equivalent of three-chile spread," he says. Roz looks even more confused.

"Indians don't eat hot stuff," she says. "The Mexicans on the landscaping crews do, but—"

"Not Native Americans or whatever the hell they're called now," he interrupts, annoyed at her ignorance. "East Indians—from India. That's outside New York State, in case you didn't know that either."

She glares at him. "I know where India is, you jerk."

"Jerk is Jamaican," he says, and almost smiles at her bewilderment. "You've never had that either, apparently. Have you EVER been outside this blink town?"

"I went to tech school in Buffalo," she says, all defiance.

"So no doubt you think haute cuisine is wing platters with celery and ranch dressing." He is openly taunting her now. It's not fair, he knows she can't help her insular upbringing, but something in him wants to slap at her.

"I think you're a snob who likes hurting people before they hurt him," she says. Her eyes flash. "Too bad it doesn't work."

The mix of truth and lies throws him for a second, but then he's been off his game for months. He opens his mouth to reply and catches a glimpse of Sarah's face. She is watching him and Roz too, with a cool speculation that pulls him up short.

"Says you," he mutters, and glares at Sarah. She raises her brows, then pops a fry in her mouth, just as she did at the diner days ago. Gene looks impassive, but his dark eyes are full of amusement.

After dinner Roz sits down with Sarah to discuss plans for the office. Sarah invites Greg to join them. He sits on the opposite side of the table, watching them as he sips his beer. Under the mellow light of the overhead pull-down lamp Roz's dark hair has a coppery sheen. She tucks a thick lock behind her ear, and Greg sees a few small curls hidden by the long strands. If she wore her hair in a shorter style it would be wavy or even loosely curly, not straight. He wonders what she would look like in a bob. She has a long slender neck and swimmer's shoulders, well-set and straight if on the bony side. Short hair would suit her.

_What the hell am I thinking?_ He pushes the image away and realizes Sarah is asking him a question.

"Is there anything you'd like to add? Anything special you need?"

Greg doesn't even glance at the rough plan Roz has sketched on her notepad. "Nope," he says, gets to his feet and limps away.


	13. Chapter 13

_**(A/N: we are now into the calm before the storm. Not to give too much away, but big-time angst is coming! Hang in there, it should be worth the wait. If you are so inclined, please review after reading, it would really make my day. --B)**_

_January 22__nd_

_4 p.m._

Greg puts the Eames chair behind his new desk and steps back to take a look at the result. It's a good match; the sleek, smooth lines of the chair compliment the simple Art Deco style rolltop he's chosen. His lamp is placed so the light shines on all the right spots, and his turntable and vinyl collection are both within easy reach. His side of the bookshelves is filled with medical journals, reference texts and some of his favorite mementos. Underfoot the thick oriental carpet glows in muted colors, soft scarlets and yellows and oranges, the stylized forms rolling across the broad floorboards in orderly fashion. The franklin stove radiates heat, crackling in a comfortable sort of way; a sizeable stack of firewood and a basket of waxed pine cones wait beside it on the brick hearth, ready to be used. Outside the small window on the back wall, snow falls in lazy swirls. The room has come alive with all these disparate bits and pieces. It's a great office, and it'll be even better when Sarah puts her things in place also. A few days ago, before Lucas's phone call, he would have been more than satisfied with the results. Now he feels an emptiness he knows all too well. None of it matters.

"Looks great!" Sarah stands in the doorway, looking around the room, her face bright with pleasure. "I'll get my stuff in tonight after dinner." She glances at the turntable. "Everything came up from storage okay?"

He sits down in his chair, tips it back a bit, hoists his legs to the top of the desk and crosses them. All he needs is a ball to toss. And patients--not to toss, to diagnose. Same difference most of the time. "Yeah."

"Greg." Sarah is watching him now, her expression troubled. "What is it?"

For one insane moment he considers telling her, all of it—the deep wounds Lucas inflicted, the growing numbness in his heart, the Vicodin. He feels like he's slowly bleeding out. If he doesn't say something soon, he'll die.

_What's the point? _his rational mind sneers. _She can't do anything. Nothing anyone does will help. You're on your own, you always have been._

"Nothing," he says. "Tired. My leg's a little stiff today." He'd shoveled part of the front step before a spasm forced him to stop.

She comes into the room. "Is it your thigh?"

"My groin," he says as she ends up standing beside him. "It's . . . it's just so painful. Is there anything you could do—you know, a little massage, maybe a hand job . . . anything?"

"You are such a horndog," she says dryly, but there's a smile in her eyes. "How about I work on your quadriceps, since that's where it hurts?"

"Wet blanket," he mutters, but only because she would expect him to. His heart isn't in it.

"May I touch you?" she is asking. He nods and looks away, hears her rub her palms together hard and fast. When she covers his scar he jumps. Heat pulses from her hands, soaking into what's left of the muscle. Without meaning to he sighs, relaxing as the deep ache recedes.

"Better?" The contact is light, comforting. It feels wonderful.

"Mmmm . . ." He knows a dangerous sense of peace and tries to push it away, but it won't budge.

"Gene wants to talk with you about your pain management before he leaves."

His relaxation evaporates. He struggles to pull free but her small hands hold him in place gently.

"It's all right," she says. "He wants to set up things through his assistant so if you need changes or a consult you won't have to wait. You'll like Thomas, he's good at his job and he'll be a real help."

_I'll be the judge of that._ "Okay."

"Greg, what's wrong?" Her concern is genuine, and it scrapes at him. "Don't worry about your meds, Gene will make sure you're taken care of."

He yanks his legs down and winces as his ruined thigh sends a loud protest to his brain. "I'm fine."

"Please talk to me." Her soft voice is persuasive, but he won't listen, he can't. He limps out of the room to get his laptop and leaves her standing there. When he comes back she is gone.

After dinner, while Sarah is busy setting up her side of the office, Gene goes over the plan.

"If you need to speak with me directly you can leave a message at this addy or ask my assistant to contact me. I won't always be able to get back to you immediately, but Thomas can make some decisions in my absence." He gives the paper with contact information to Greg. "How's the pain? Still having breakthrough when you're standing or walking? We can increase the pregabalin a little if need be. There are several other options we haven't tried yet as well."

"I'm good." He feels like a total shit for lying to this man, who is the first physician to actually help him find some dependable relief and who seems to care that he stays that way. Gene also hasn't treated him like a drug-seeker. The irony of that fact hangs over him.

"Okay." Gene doesn't look up. "I sent a progress report to Will. We're making headway on the surgery approval front. He'll be contacting you in a couple of weeks about getting the nerve block done."

Greg's heart sinks. "That's great."

"That jerk really did a number on you, didn't he?" Gene says quietly. "Is she worth fighting for?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" He can't do this conversation. "Cuddy made her choice. It wasn't me."

"Okay. Didn't mean to pry." Gene gets to his feet. "Any questions, ask."

After a while Greg goes to the office. Sarah is putting books on a shelf. Music fills the room. It's Bessie Smith—one of her favorites, he often hears that distinctive voice when Sarah's in the kitchen working or doing housecleaning. Bessie is singing 'nobody knows you/when you down an' out . . .' _Truer words_, he thinks.

"Why are you using a kitchen chair at your desk?" he asks, for lack of anything better to say.

"I've got an office chair on order, it'll come in next week." Sarah fits a reference book in place. "May I ask if Gene said anything about the surgery?"

"He's already talked to you," he snaps. "Stop pretending you're not discussing me behind my back. It's getting old."

"He hasn't said anything except in general terms," Sarah says. She holds another book in her small hands, watching him with a resignation he cannot bear. "I learned my lesson about betraying a trust, Greg. I won't do that to you or anyone else ever again."

He believes her, but it doesn't matter. Without another word he turns away and goes to his room, where the Vicodin is waiting and he can try to sleep without dreams.


	14. Chapter 14

_**(A/N: we're taking one last little detour before the angstfest begins in earnest. If you have never heard the song mentioned in the story, check it out sometime, it's lovely. Gordon Lightfoot wrote and owns the lyrics to 'Approaching Lavender', not me. I also do not own or make money from writing about Gregory House & Co. Enjoy, and please read and review, it would make my day. --B)**_

_January 23__rd_

_9 p.m._

Gene was on his way to Haiti, and Sarah was alone.

She'd held it together all day long, mainly because she knew her husband needed her to. It was something she could do for him, about the only thing. So she smiled and joked and stayed at his side; she went to the airport and waited with him until he had to leave her behind at the security checkpoint. She'd stayed to watch his flight depart, standing at the observation windows, waving until the plane was gone from sight. Then she'd driven herself home in the cold dark, hoping to make it before the next storm hit.

Now she lay in their bed, chilled despite the thick warm comforter and flannel sheets, Gene's pillow hugged tight to her so she could breathe in his scent. She'd even left the light on, like a little kid afraid of the dark.

Greg had been nowhere in sight when she arrived; the living room was empty, and there were no dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. _He's avoiding emotional pain, even someone else's, _she thought._ But there's more going on. I think he's using._ The idea was not a new one. For several days now she'd suspected he was high—not enough to attract attention, but then she'd had more experience than most people in detecting the small signs that were easy to dismiss or overlook. Still, the only evidence she had was her intuition; the man was taking pain meds on a daily basis, and that complicated matters considerably. If she confronted him and it backfired, if it turned out she was reading those little signs incorrectly, he might lose the tiny but significant gains in trust he'd made since coming to stay.

Yet it wasn't physical symptoms as much as attitude that kept sending her warning signals. He had withdrawn in some vital way, and it was hurting him. If he was using, it was to numb the pain and anxiety.

_And I can't get him to relax enough to talk with me about it. _Once or twice she'd nearly succeeded, but the man was true to his nature, and that was stubborn with a capital S. She would have to wait until she was absolutely sure he was taking something beyond his prescribed meds, and it might be too late to help him at that point.

Sarah sighed, shifted a bit and saw something poke out from beneath her pillow. She felt around with care and brought forth an mp3 player and a set of earbuds. There was a small post-it on the casing: 'play me'. A smile lifted the corners of her mouth. She sat up, removed the note and stuck it on her nightstand, then put the buds in her ears and started the playlist. When the opening chords of 'Approaching Lavender' began she brought cold fingers to her lips, a laugh trembling there. It was a recording Gene had made two summers ago in the back yard of their house in town. She listened to the rustle of leaves, the sounds of children playing, the rush of wind over the mike as Gene sang, and felt the tightness in her throat ease.

She curled on her side as the song ended and a poem began, Gene's low, quiet voice reciting e.e. cummings 'somewhere I have never travelled'. She closed her eyes, imagined her head on Gene's chest with the words rumbling comfortingly under her cheek, and gladly slipped into happier memories.

_(late February _

_1998_

"_That cute guy's here again tonight." Laynie nudged Sarah. _

"_There's a lot of cute guys here tonight," Sarah said, and sipped her mocha latte. "Which one are you drooling over now?"_

"_The one who just took the stage. Ooohh, he's gorgeous! I bet his umpty-times great-grandpa was a pirate." Laynie stood up to get a better view. Sarah tugged her back down into her seat._

"_Are you __sure__ you like girls better?" she whispered. _

"_I can appreciate a good-looking man," Laynie said with dignity. "I just don't act on it." She nudged Sarah again. "He's gonna play!"_

_Sarah peered at the stage. Actually, that was rather a grand word for the battered plywood podium with its single antiquated microphone and folding chair. The young man seated in that chair held a guitar in his hands. Laynie had to be completely hormonal or something, the guy wasn't even cute; he looked tough and mean and a little dangerous with his q-tip haircut, deepset eyes and stern expression. Then, as she stared at him, he turned his head and looked straight at her, a long, assessing stare that took her by surprise and made her glance away, uncomfortable with the intensity behind his gaze. _

"_Hey, he's scoping you out!" Laynie informed her and several other tables. Sarah felt heat creep into her cheeks. _

"_Will you shush?" she hissed, knowing it was hopeless; Laynie couldn't be discreet if her life depended on it. She dared a glance at the stage. The young man was still looking in her direction, only now he was smiling. The transformation it created left her gaping in astonishment. _He has dimples,_ she thought in bewilderment. _A pirate with dimples. _Laynie was right; he __was__ gorgeous. _

"_Hey guys," he was saying, and a peculiar little shiver went through Sarah at the sound of his voice. It was low and resonant and had a noticeable Midwestern accent, the good kind—not nasal and closed off but open, with a little twang gracing honest, grounded words. "I'm gonna change my playlist just a bit and start off with a favorite of mine. Some of you might have heard of Gordon Lightfoot," he nodded in acknowledgment at scattered applause. "He wrote some fine songs, and this is one of his best."_

_He began to strum a chord, his big hands caressing the instrument. Sarah wondered what it would be like to have those hands on her and felt her blush intensify. She lifted her gaze to his face once more and sure enough, he was still watching her. _

"_If you'd like to spend an afternoon approaching Lavender/you'll feel just fine but one thing's sure/you'll never be the same," he sang, and grinned at her. Sarah ducked her head and wondered if she was absolutely scarlet by now, one of the many curses of owning fair skin._

"_Oh my god," Laynie moaned next to her, "this is soooo romantic!"_

"_Oh, sweet Lavender, as fragrant as the name you bear/please cast aside the clothes you wear/and give your love to me," the young guy sang. His dark eyes gleamed with humor and something else, something that told Sarah he meant every word. "Oh, sweet Lavender, your smile is like the golden sun/I'd like to see you laugh and run/as naked as the sea . . . "_

_People were beginning to turn in their seats, following the singer's line of sight. Sarah hunched her shoulders and wished, not for the first time, that she had the gift of invisibility—a vain hope for someone with curly carrot-colored hair. _

_When the song was finished she clapped a few times out of politeness, got to her feet and collected her coat. "I have a test tomorrow," she told Laynie. _

"_Boy, are you red!" Her friend chuckled. "Wish someone would sing songs like that to _me._"_

"_Yeah, that's great. See you later." Sarah fled the coffeehouse as if every member of her family was in hot pursuit. She was so distraught she didn't even put her coat on until she was halfway across the quad and covered in snowflakes._

_An hour later, someone knocked at the door. Sarah got up from the couch, struggling to remember which paragraph she wanted to footnote, and raised her voice to reach into the hallway._

"_Pizza's for apartment C, this is A."_

_No one answered; the knock sounded again. With a sigh of irritation she got to her feet and unlocked the door._

"_I didn't order anything!"_

"_That's good, because I'd like to ask you out for supper."_

_Sarah slowly lifted her eyes to find the lean dark face of the young man from the coffeehouse smiling down at her. He was tall and rangy, with broad shoulders, long legs and a wonderful musky scent, some sandalwood-based cologne and his own smell, clean and male. _Oh, my god, _she thought, and swallowed_. _Up close it was possible to see his eyes weren't brown, but a sort of greeny-hazel with gold flecks. They changed to a deep mossy color as she looked into them, giving her a curious light-headed feeling._

"_Supper?" she said, and winced inside. She sounded like an idiot._

"_Well, traditionally it's the meal you eat in the evening. We could do a movie beforehand if you'd like."_

"_Why did you sing that song to me?" she asked without thinking. "You don't even know my name."_

_His smile deepened a bit. "Michael Eugene Goldman," he said, and held out his hand. "Call me Gene."_

_After a moment she put her fingers in his. His palm was callused but warm and dry. "Sarah Jane Corbett," she said, hating the prosaic sound of it. "I'm just Sare."_

"_Sarah." It sounded different when he said it—not plain or boring at all. "Please come to supper with me."_

"_Why?" she asked. _

"_Why not?" he said. His clasp changed as he spoke, holding her with a gentleness she hadn't expected. That light-headed feeling was back, and she found it was actually a very pleasant sensation. _

"_All right," she said. "Okay.") _

Sarah smiled and snuggled into Gene's pillow a little deeper. _I convinced him to grow his hair out after that, just so I could run my fingers through it. _He'd moved in after the third date, and now she couldn't remember what it was like not to have him there with her. This longer separation would be a good reminder of what she'd taken for granted for years now.

Tomorrow she would send him a reply, one he'd enjoy and appreciate because of their shared history. She listened to his voice reciting the words they both treasured and closed her eyes, feeling tension slip away slowly as sleep claimed her.


	15. Chapter 15

_January 26__th_

_10 a.m._

Greg emerges from his bedroom with a pile of dirty laundry wrapped up in a sheet. He drags it through the living room, into the kitchen and to the washer, where it is dumped in front of the machine to await sorting and cleaning by someone else.

There is no coffee ready however, no breakfast sitting in a warm oven. Disgruntled, he throws grounds into a filter, jams it into the coffeemaker, starts the machine and searches the cupboards for an easy meal.

Ten minutes later he's headed into the living room with a one-quart mixing bowl filled with half a box of Cinnamon Life, chocolate milk, and sugar, intent on spending the morning in front of the tv. As he is about to take over the couch he hears Sarah's laugh, sweet and musical, drifting from the office. He ignores it and searches for the remote, only to pause when she laughs again and then says something. He cannot make out the words, but he hears the humor in her tone. Intrigued despite himself, he gets up and heads to the office, bowl in hand.

When he peers in the doorway, it is to find Sarah at her desk on her laptop webcam, talking to a young woman.

"I can't believe they really want to follow us around all summer," she is saying. "Aren't there enough reality shows as it is?"

"Hey, if Reed Timmer can do it, why not?" The young woman says, smiling. She is the very definition of cornfed beauty—natural blonde, fair skin, big blue eyes, straight white teeth. He catches a glimpse of cleavage when she shifts—nice perky rack. "It's _money_, Sare! A lot of money! We could commission some probes and upgrade our radar and maybe even buy a new truck."

"It would mean a film crew getting in the way," Sarah said, her tone dry. "Of course I wouldn't expect _you_ to mind."

"Hey, are you saying I'm a camera hog?" The young woman laughs and then squinches her eyes, peering into her side of the webcam. "There's a good-looking guy who isn't Gene standing behind you."

Sarah doesn't even turn her head. "Greg, this is Laynie Jorgesen. She's the other half of our storm-chasing team. Laynie, this is Greg House. He's staying with us for a while."

"Woooo, nice to meet ya Greg!" Laynie gives him a considering look from those cornflower blue eyes. Greg blinks. "Does Gene know about you?"

"Of course not," he says, and slurps up a big spoonful of cereal. "Coffee's on," he says through layers of half-soggy wheat and sugar and chocolate milk. "I know you don't drink it, but I thought I'd induce some guilt first thing."

"Damn, I forgot! Sorry," Sarah says. Now he hears the tiredness in her voice. _Probably up half the night worrying,_ he thinks, and shrugs it aside. She agreed to her husband traipsing off to one of the world's great pustules of misery; she has no one to blame but herself.

"Hey Sare, does this mean Gene is fair game now? Mm—mmm!" Laynie actually smacks her lips. They are full, soft and impossibly pink.

"You are incorrigible," Sarah says with obvious affection. "You know, I could tell Kate about all this man-grabbing talk and you'd be in big, big trouble."

"Blackmailer," Laynie says, but she's grinning. Greg pauses with the spoon halfway to his mouth, dripping milk on his tee shirt.

"You're a _lesbo_?"

"I prefer vagitarian," Laynie says primly. Sarah cracks up. Greg drops the spoon into the bowl, unable to prevent a bark of laughter.

"Nice," he says, leaning against the doorjamb. All sorts of wonderful fantasies are unreeling in his mind's eye right now.

"But I _could_ be convinced to switch-hit if you're up for teaching me," Laynie says, batting her eyelashes at him.

"Stop it," Sarah says, still chuckling. "You can ride your bike some other time. Back to the topic at hand. You should know I probably won't be able to chase this summer. We'll need to find someone to take my place."

"What's going on?" Laynie goes from lascivious to concerned in a microsecond. "You're all right? You haven't had a recurrence?"

"No," Sarah says, "I'm fine. There's a prior commitment that takes precedence. There are no guarantees about when I'd be able to come out, and you know the long-range forecasts are predicting an active season, especially along the dry line. We can't pass up an opportunity to gather more live data for the paper."

"You've never missed a season since we started STR," Laynie says. She is completely serious, the humor gone from her features. "Now when we've got the best chance ever to join the big leagues, you can't make it?"

"'STR'?" Greg asks.

"Sooner Tornado Research," Sarah says. "Laynie, I can help from here—you'll shoot me the data and I'll work on it, I can do all kinds of research now that we've got the office set up. That's the best I can offer at the moment. Besides, it's no big deal. We can get Atkins to take my place—"

"I am _not_ chasing with The Prick," Laynie says, her eyes flashing. "It should be _you_, Sare. We've both worked so hard for this! It's not fair that you're stuck on the Coast when everything's going to break for us!"

"It's not a big deal," Sarah says again. "You'll be there, that's all that matters. So you think we should take the offer?"

Greg heads into the living room, having heard enough. He is watching tv when Sarah comes through a while later. She goes into the kitchen. After a time he hears the washer start up. A few minutes later she joins him, sitting in the easy chair next to the couch, a mug of tea clasped in her hands.

"Recurrence?" he asks. She sighs.

"Didn't think you'd let that one go," she says. "It was nothing. I had a lump in my left breast. It was a cyst. Apparently my mom's side of the family has a genetic predisposition. Just one of the many things she never bothered to tell me."

"Surgery?" He keeps his tone mildly inquiring while he sorts through symptoms.

"Well, I was tempted to leave it in, but they wouldn't put an implant in my other breast to keep things even, so I said what the hell, take it out. I'm still just a thirty-two C." She flashes a grin at him.

"Thirty B, tops," he says.

"Jeez, party pooper. Let me have my fantasy." She sets the tea aside, tips her head back and closes her eyes. "Anything else you want to ask?"

"Why aren't you chasing this summer?" He knows why, but he wants to hear her explanation.

"I'm working with you," she says.

"That's bullshit," he says. "You could leave for a few weeks, it wouldn't matter."

"You are my first priority," she says. "We'll find a sub. It's okay."

"You're putting your life on hold while you shrink my head," he says. "Nobody asked you to do that."

"No, they didn't," she says. Greg makes an impatient noise.

"So? Go chase your damn twisters!"

Sarah opens her eyes. "What's the matter?" she asks softly. "Feeling guilty?"

"Why would I?" he snaps.

"You tell me," she says, and in that moment he understands: she knows or at least suspects he's using. He waits for the torrent of accusation to begin, but she only closes her eyes again and brings her feet up on the coffee table. She is wearing a pair of sheepskin slippers with scuffed soles, obviously old favorites.

"Nothing to tell," he says.

"Okay," she says.

"Reverse psychology. Wow, no one's _ever_ tried _that_ technique before," he taunts her. "No, wait! I get it! You're doing research for a paper. In that case, hate to tell you this, but . . ." He speaks in a loud whisper. "It won't work on me. Word to the wise and all that." He gives her an exaggerated wink.

"Okay," she says again.

"Jesus, are you paying royalties on words? What do you _want_?" He is frustrated yet again with her refusal to take the bait, and afraid of it too. He's used to people poking at him, interrogating him, expecting the worst; she does none of those things. It's like trying to fight with a down-filled comforter.

"The truth," she says. "But only when you're ready."

He opens his mouth to reply but is interrupted by a cell phone ringtone. Sarah lifts her head. Without comment she gets up and answers it, moving into the kitchen. Greg can hear her talking—mostly she's listening though, her words are few and far between. Her voice is soft enough that he can't determine her emotional state either. He sits there, his gut twisting as he waits for her to come back and reveal who has called and what they want.

After a while Sarah returns to the living room. She doesn't look grim, not exactly, but her expression is serious, resigned.

"Who was it?" he asks, though he doesn't really want to know.

"Wilson. Your mother called him," she says. A shock goes through Greg at the words. "She wants to meet with you. Apparently she's concerned about your staying here. Someone told her you were pulled out of Mayfield and brought to our home for brainwashing or something, and now no one has access to you. She's worried."

Her tone is carefully neutral, but he hears the anger beneath it and is comforted in a curious sort of way. "Lucas," he says, a surmise but it's possible he's right. He'll have to do some digging to confirm though. Sarah nods.

"That's my guess too, but at this point it doesn't matter," she says. "I'd hoped we could wait until later, when the warm weather arrives . . ." She sighs softly. "Now we don't have a choice, we have to meet with her. But we can at least choose the time and place."

"She's not coming up?" Greg feels a distant sort of surprise.

"That's a hell of a distance for an older woman to travel in the dead of winter. We can find a middle ground, a halfway point." sarah glances at him. "Would you be comfortable with that?"

He nods, though it's a lie. There is nothing comfortable about any of this. He thinks of the Vicodin he's got left—about twenty tabs—and a murky panic grabs at him before he can push it away. It's not enough, not nearly enough to get him through what's coming, but he'll have to make it work somehow.

"I'll see what we can set up," Sarah is saying. "I'm sorry about this, Greg." She is concerned, he can hear it in her voice, but all he can think is _I have to talk with Mom_. He's not exactly sure what will happen, but he does know it won't be anything good.


	16. Chapter 16

_**(A/N: got a fic recommendation for you--check out MissBates 'Pyrrhic Victory'. It's a fine read and well worth your time and attention.**_

_**So . . . now we head into some angsty-good fun. Enjoy, and please let me know what you think with a review if you're so inclined. --B)  
**_

_January 29__th_

_12 p.m._

Today's the big day.

They have arrived at the midway point. It's not Princeton; Greg had vetoed the idea before Wilson even had a chance to offer. He couldn't handle the thought of trying to talk with his mother while sitting in the Amber Shrine or at PPTH, and having this tete-a-tete in a public setting like a restaurant is completely out of the question.

They'd left home at 3 a.m., driving down through several snow squalls before hitting clear dry highway at last. As the sun rose they'd stopped just outside Wilkes-Barre for some breakfast and a tank fill-up at the local Wawa. He'd dry-swallowed two Vicodin right before leaving and now he was nauseated and trembling; he'd loaded a cup of coffee with creamer and sugar and it had helped settle his stomach to a degree, but he still felt sick. Sarah had opted for tea of course, but most of it was still sitting in the driver's side cupholder, growing colder by the moment in its cardboard container. It had heartened him to know she was nervous about this whole thing too.

Of course he'd tried to weasel out of this ridiculous plan, knowing Sarah wouldn't drug him senseless, stuff him in the minivan she'd borrowed from a neighbor, and head south. He'd laid out the logical reasons why this was a pointless trip and thrown in some sarcasm for good measure, hoping Sarah would give in under the relentless badgering. She had listened to him, then said "She's your mother and she wants to see you. She's worried, Greg. If you don't take care of this now, it'll just get worse."

Normally that statement would have received nothing more than incredulous laughter and some choice rejoinders, but for some reason he can't push it away. If he were to think about it, if he were to consider why he's being such a complete idiot, it could be because he knows Sarah is right. He has to do this.

As a result, he and Sarah wait in the reception area of a private practice just outside Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. He's ridden up from Princeton to Nazareth to window-shop guitars at the Martin store—a pleasant day trip in summertime, paralleling the Delaware River through sleepy little towns and tourist traps like New Hope--but he was never interested in visiting this old run-down steel-mill town.

"I called in a favor," Sarah had told him the night before. "We can use a conference room at my colleague's clinic. We'll have it for the entire afternoon."

Now she is sitting next to him reading some article in Newsweek, calm as you please, while he is tied in knots so tight it feels like he's going to break apart. She's wearing one of her office outfits for the occasion--dark teal suit, cream-colored blouse and low-heeled black pumps. Her hair is arranged in a simple style that tames her auburn curls into something resembling order, and her makeup is flattering without being too obvious. She looks competent, assured and in charge.

"May I touch you?" Her soft voice reaches him dimly. He glances at her and finds she isn't oblivious to his distress. Unable to speak, he nods once and looks away. Her hand slips over his, takes his freezing fingers in a warm, firm grasp. To his eternal gratitude she doesn't offer him clichés or trite phrases about how it'll all be okay; she just gives him silent reassurance. He senses her concern, even as the outside doors open and his mother and Wilson walk in.

Mom looks the same as always—elegant in a jewel tone sweater and charcoal-gray slacks under her thick winter coat, her silver hair neatly coiffed, small gold earrings matching the simple band on her right hand. He tries to find some residual sadness for Dad's death in her but it isn't there, or perhaps she's still got the ability to hide her emotions. Most of the time during his childhood and youth, he'd never been sure what she was feeling. Wilson is . . . Wilson, dressed in office casual: white shirt, tie, sweater, pleated slacks, loafers, trenchcoat already draped over his arm.

"Greg," Mom is saying, her expression expectant, questioning. Slowly he gets to his feet and lets go of Sarah's hand to move forward. When he is close enough he bends down to give her a quick, awkward hug. He hasn't seen her in a while; he always forgets how small she is. She kisses his cheek, returns his hug and pats his shoulder, then steps back.

"Mrs. House, this is my friend and colleague Doctor Sarah Goldman," Wilson is saying. "Doctor Goldman, Mrs. John House."

"Good morning," Sarah says in her calm, clear voice.

"Good morning," Mom replies, and her tone is a tad less than gracious. Greg watches his mother's gaze flicker over Sarah's face and clothing, her sensible shoes and unpainted nails, and sees her frown just a little. _Not what you expected, is she?_ he thinks, and knows Sarah has somehow scored a point for their side.

"Why don't we all sit down?" Wilson says. Sarah nods.

"We're in here," she says, indicating a door on the right. They follow her into the room. "Would anyone like coffee or tea before we begin?"

"No, thank you," Mom says. "We had a delightful brunch at the Vienna Tea Room."

"Excellent choice," Sarah says. She glances at Wilson, then at Greg. "We'll get started then. If we could please be seated?"

Everyone does as she asks and chooses a place at the conference table. It's a pleasant if unremarkable setting; lamps placed here and there around the area provide mellow indirect lighting, and the walls are decorated with florals and landscapes done in soft pastels. Greg takes the closest seat, unbuttons his coat, sets his cane aside. He sits down, knowing his worst nightmare is about to start and he cannot stop it, like an avalanche you hear far up in the mountains above you as you're skiing down a slope. His heart is beating fast; he swallows on a dry throat and hopes this goes quickly, knowing the chances of that happening are slim indeed.

"Before we begin, I'd like to establish a few parameters," Sarah says. She is speaking in the cool, unflappable tone he remembers well from their early days together at Mayfield. "This meeting has been agreed to in the hope of promoting Doctor House's further recovery, and to answer questions about the nature of the process used to help him. To that end, my role is one of facilitator. With your permission I will ask questions that bring out pertinent detail, or guide the conversation back to the topic at hand if it is warranted."

"Of course," Wilson says. He gives Sarah a shrewd look but doesn't say anything more. Mom nods and glances at Greg. After a moment he shifts in his seat, uncomfortable with their scrutiny.

"Whatever," he says, and his mother frowns at him just as she did when he was a teenager, sullen and uncooperative.

"Okay, thanks," Sarah says. "Mrs. House, I understand you have some questions about your son's treatment process. Please feel free to ask me anything. I'll answer as truthfully I can without breaking doctor-patient confidentiality."

Mom looks a little taken aback by this up-front honesty. "Well, I . . ." She rallies and looks straight at Sarah. "All right. What on earth do you think you're doing, keeping Greg at your country home when you're a married woman?"

Greg wants to snap at her that he's not having an affair with his analyst because he's not Wilson, but before he can even form a reply Sarah is speaking.

"Doctor House is my patient. He is also under the care of my husband, Doctor Gene Goldman, for ongoing pain management issues." She is the consummate professional, her words precise, well-chosen, and logical. "Gene and I both felt Doctor House needed more therapy than could be given in short weekly sessions. To that end, we invited him to reside with us at our farm in upstate New York while he is in recovery." She pauses. "Doctor House is free to leave at any time. It is his choice to remain, and he is welcome for as long as he cares to stay."

"But you do understand it looks bad?" his mother says. "I don't want my son involved in anything that could jeopardize his career."

He _has_ to interrupt this time. "Mom, my license was suspended. I went to _rehab_. I'm an _addict_. My career is already in the toilet. Staying with my shrink and my pain management tool is not going to make things worse."

His mother makes a gesture of dismissal. "Greg, you can get your license back. I spoke with Doctor Cuddy and she said it would take a little time, but you could do it." She leans forward slightly, her earnestness grinding at him like a polishing wheel. "All you have to do is make up your mind that you're done with the drugs and go back to Princeton. You've got a wonderful career there, and friends who can help you."

"Doctor Wilson," Sarah says quietly, "when Doctor House was working with you at Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital, did you write prescriptions for him?"

Wilson tenses, his expression wary. "Occasionally, yes."

"Those prescriptions were for hydrocodone—Vicodin, a narcotic. Am I correct?"

"Sarah . . ." Wilson sighs. "Yes."

"You wrote numerous scrips for Vicodin even after Doctor House admitted to you that he was addicted to that substance," she says. Her tone is neutral, but Wilson still bristles, predictably.

"If I hadn't written them he would have stolen the pad from my desk and forged my signature! In fact he did that several times!"

"_Gregory_ . . ." Mom stares at Greg, shocked.

"How many times do I have to tell people that I'm an addict?" Greg says. Anger sparks deep within. "Addicts do stupid things, like forge scrips."

"Doctor Wilson, isn't it also true that the Dean of Medicine was aware of the prescriptions you were writing for Doctor House?" Sarah asks. Wilson favors her with a glare, but beneath his anger there's a palpable apprehension. Greg recognizes it and knows a brief amusement. Wilson hates being faced with his attempts at trying to eat his cake and have it too. Greg knows because he's used it often in the past to mess with Wilson. It's a sure-fire way to get the man going.

"I--we . . . discussed the issue—from time to time."

"So Doctor Cuddy knew Doctor House was being given a controlled substance, a narcotic, to which he was addicted. This narcotic was prescribed by another member of the hospital staff who had full knowledge of Doctor House's addiction. Further, Doctor House was taking it while he was on hospital grounds, during working hours. That meant he was making decisions that would affect the health and well-being of his patients while under the influence."

"They all knew," Greg says. "It wasn't just Wilson and Cuddy. My team, even the damn housekeepers—everyone knew. I didn't hide it." _Another point for our side,_ he thinks.

"And yet _no one_ did anything to put a stop to it?" Sarah sounds incredulous.

"That's not fair," Wilson says with some heat. "I tried to get him some help! It took Tritter nailing his a—him," he amends, obviously mindful of Greg's mother. "As part of a deal he went into rehab, but it was all a big joke. Wasn't it?" he hurls at Greg. "You sat there and popped a pill right in front of me in the visitor's room and you thought it was funny!"

"Well yeah, it _was_ pretty funny," Greg says. Mom gives him The Look. He hasn't seen it in many a year, but it still has the same power over him it did when he was a kid. He shuts up, his insides tightening.

"One of the reasons why I offered Doctor House the chance to stay with Gene and me was to help him step away from the old patterns that played a part in his addiction," Sarah says to his mother. "It became obvious to me that the people around him in his workplace were enabling him, probably out of a mistaken attempt to help him cope. I believe if Doctor House were to return to Princeton and his former job without further treatment, he would inevitably fall back into the same habits that created this problem in the first place."

"Thanks a lot for the vote of confidence," Wilson says.

"I'm not making this personal, Doctor Wilson," Sarah says, calm and cool. "I'm simply stating things as I see them."

"I really don't believe what you're implying is true, Doctor Goldman," Mom says. "Greg knows he did terrible things and let down his family and coworkers as well as his employer. I think he could make up for his wrongdoing by returning home and proving to everyone that he's stronger than they think he is. If you weren't holding him back he'd be there now." She looks at Greg. "Isn't that right?"

"You believe addiction is a choice?" Sarah asks, her tone mild. "That it's wrong?"

"Of course," Mom says. Greg watches her in disbelief. No one else understands the full extent of her hypocrisy; it's sickening.

_Tell_, a little voice deep inside says, startling him. _Tell them_.

_I can't_, he argues with that small whisper, horrified. _It's a secret. Mom's sitting right there. If I tell, I'll get in even worse trouble than I am now._

_How? Dad's dead. He can't hurt you any more, _the voice reminds him.

_But Mom's sitting _right there. _If I tell, she'll hate me for the rest of my life. She's all the family I have left. _

_Secrets keep you sick. _That's Sarah's voice inside him now. In his mind's eye he sees her perched on the picnic table in the yard at Mayfield, pushing up the sleeve of her cardigan to reveal the terrible scars on her arm. _I found out who and what I really am,_ he hears her say. Out of the corner of his eye he sees her sitting next to him, at his side. She's still there, despite his best efforts to push her away; she's stood by him, and in this moment he understands that for the first time. He has a chance to follow her example, and discover who and what he really is. If he fails, he'll know for sure that nothing he does will ever matter. If he succeeds . . . He pushes that thought away, takes a deep breath and wills his hands to stop shaking.

"So, Mom," he is still astonished to hear himself speaking aloud, "you're saying you _chose_ to abuse Valium when Dad was away on maneuvers?"


	17. Chapter 17

_**A/N: firstly, many thanks to mmgage for helping me flesh out Blythe House's character through our ongoing discussions. It's much appreciated :) If you haven't read mm's excellent fic 'Neighbors' and her new story, 'Friends', please do so--they're great reads. **_

_**Secondly, a big thank you to everyone who nominated my first three stories for a RocktheHouse award. It's still a huge shock that anyone would think my scribblings are worth such an honor. I'm humbled and grateful. If you're interested in seeing who's up for awards, email me and I can send you the addy for the **_**_homepage. Many excellent fics are listed--check them out! --B)_**

If the situation wasn't so tense he would have smiled at the reaction his question elicits. Wilson looks surprised. His mother is shocked for about five seconds before alarmed outrage takes over. She doesn't show it, however; she hides it behind a concerned expression. He has no doubt about what she's really feeling though, at least not this time. Sarah says nothing; still, he can all but hear her shouting _YES!!_ inside her mind.

"What do you mean?" Mom asks carefully, as if he's delusional.

"All those afternoons when you told me to do the wash or the dishes or clean up the house while you were so stoned you could barely stand up," he says, and feels something within him shift. He doesn't pay attention to it; his focus is on the confrontation. "You're saying you chose to do that? To pass out for hours on end and neglect your kid?"

Mom's gaze darts to Sarah, then away."I have no idea what you're referring to. I don't remember anything like that happening."

"Come on, Mom!" Anger surges through him. "You were taking enough downers to knock out an elephant." He remembers catching glimpses of multiple pills in her hand. "I saw you with at least three times the prescribed amount on a routine basis. Amateur," he adds as an afterthought.

"_Greg!_" His mother glares at him.

"Did you have a prescription for a sedative, Mrs. House?" Sarah asks.

"That is absolutely none of your business!" Mom snaps. Now she looks nervous and just a little frightened.

"It's a legitimate question," Greg says, and realizes with some surprise that he's enjoying her discomfiture. "An even better one is why you were taking them in the first place."

"What's the point of this?" Wilson asks.

"Did you have a prescription?" Sarah says again, ignoring Wilson.

"I--yes, of course," Mom says, defiant now. "The base GP gave me one. When John was away, I . . . I had trouble sleeping."

"You were nervous without your husband at home?" Sarah's tone is quiet, no accusation, just asking a question. His mother relaxes a little.

"He was gone so often, and I was raising a young boy . . . not the easiest child in the world." She softens the words with a tight smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

"Greg gave you trouble?"

"Oh, you have no idea!" Mom brushes a strand of silver hair back into place. "He was a handful. Without John there to discipline him I'm afraid Greg got away with quite a lot."

"I never got away with anything. You kept a log for Dad to read when he came back on leave," Greg says. His mother looks genuinely surprised now.

"Well of course I did, dear. You had to learn there were consequences for your actions."

"Discipline was Colonel House's responsibility?" Sarah sounds interested and nothing more.

"Yes, he insisted on it. John took his duties very seriously."

"Considering he was raising someone else's kid, yeah," Greg says. His mother flinches.

"I don't know why you cling to that fantasy, Greg," she says.

"I did a DNA test. He's not—he wasn't my biological father."

Silence falls in the room. Wilson looks away. Mom is blushing, her face the picture of distress. Sarah says nothing; she simply waits, her gaze calm and cool.

"How did it happen? Not how it _happened._ I mean, we all know the mechanics. Tab A into slot B, bing bang, out pops a baby. What I'm asking for is the story behind it all," Greg says after it becomes clear his mother isn't going to speak first. He doesn't really want to know, he doesn't want to hear about an affair, but he's lanced the boil; now it has to be cleaned out.

"I . . ." She makes a gesture with her hand, a little helpless flutter. "I really don't know what to say."

"No one is perfect," Sarah says, her soft voice gentle. "We aren't here to sit in judgment, Mrs. House. I speak for all of us when I tell you anything you say will be held in trust; we agreed to that condition beforehand. What we are doing falls under the aegis of doctor-patient confidentiality. It will never leave this room, you have our promise."

Mom sits there for a few more moments, considering.

"Very well. You say you want to know, and after all, John's gone now." She squares her shoulders but avoids eye contact with Greg. "Your father—I mean . . . John—he . . ." She hesitates. "He couldn't have children. We tried for several years, but nothing happened. I finally went to a doctor off-base, in another town. Everything was fine with me, so it had to be . . . Anyway, I thought we could adopt, but John wouldn't hear of it. He said everyone would know he couldn't get me pregnant, and it didn't matter whose fault it was, he would be considered less than a man because of it."

"Sounds just like him. So what happened? You threw darts at pictures? Held a raffle? Sold candy bars with a golden ticket hidden in one of them? Played eenie meenie chili beanie?" Greg says. His mother looks pained.

"Really, Greg! It wasn't anything so vulgar or—or random. John and I discussed having someone we both . . . approved of . . ." her blush deepens and she falters to a stop, then resumes the story. "I suggested . . . a certain person, and John got very angry. We argued. It . . . it became clear to me that he would deny any choice I made, because while he wanted a son, he also wanted the impossible—for the child to be truly his. And he would be jealous of anyone I put forth as a-a candidate. When I made the first suggestion, John threw around some terrible accusations . . ."

"Well, you must have done _something_," Greg says when she falls silent again. "I didn't get here by parthenogenesis." In his peripheral vision he sees Wilson fight a smirk and knows he too remembers the idiot couple from the clinic. It seems like a lifetime ago.

"Before your father went back to Okinawa—it was early February of fifty-eight—we had a dreadful fight. There were . . . other factors, but mainly it was about what we'd discussed. He had decided I was not to go through with it, he couldn't . . ." She hesitates.

"He didn't like the idea of you in another man's bed," Sarah says softly. Mom gives a slow nod.

"Yes."

"Then why did you do it?" Greg asks. He knows he and his mother are approaching dangerous territory.

"He pushed me," Mom whispers. She looks like she's about to cry. "He made me think about something I never would have considered—he wanted me to be deliberately unfaithful to him, when he knew I—I took my marriage vows seriously, not like some of the wives on the base—he _pushed_ me," she draws in a trembling breath, "and then he told me to forget it. Well, I _wouldn't_. So I . . . I went ahead with the plan."

No one speaks for a few moments.

"You got pregnant out of spite," Greg says finally. "You didn't want me. You . . . you never wanted me." That's not a new idea, but he hadn't thought it would be given such direct validation. It's as if he can't wake up from some terrible dream where he fades away, atom by atom, because no one believes he exists.

"Gregory, that is not true!" Mom is saying. She sounds desperate. "Yes--at first I resented the whole situation, the morning sickness and swollen feet and the smell of cooking food turning my stomach, but after a few months, when I felt you kick the first time . . . you were such an active baby." Tears glimmer in her eyes even as she smiles a little. "You would wake me up at night, moving around and sticking your foot straight into my bladder." Her smile widens a fraction. "I learned to love you even when you made me run for the bathroom. We kept each other company."

"It must have been difficult when your husband returned on leave and found you carrying a child," Wilson says, his voice gentle.

"Oh, he was beyond furious." Mom wipes her eyes. When Sarah offers a tissue she takes it with a little nod of thanks. "We had the biggest row of our marriage. It was a nightmare. He threatened to divorce me, to tell everyone on the base I'd had a flaming affair with the other man. When I pointed out he would be humiliated by every bit of gossip he created, he flew into a rage and he . . ." She doesn't go on, but the implication is clear. _My dad hit a pregnant woman,_ Greg thinks, and knows a surge of hatred for the man. "After that, for a long time he wouldn't . . ." She stops, wipes her eyes with care. "So now you know what happened."

"It seems to me," Sarah says in her calm way, "that even though you loved your son, the very sight of him would be a constant reminder of the untenable position in which you'd been placed. Some people might feel regret for their actions, or resentment at being forced to remember something so unpleasant."

"No," Mom says, shaking her head. "No, I never felt that way."

"Come on," Greg says, impatient with her dissembling. "That's a load of crap."

"I _didn't!_" she snaps at him. "God knows you gave me enough reason later on, but I never regretted having you!"

"Did Colonel House express any anger or dislike of Doctor House for not being his biological son?" Sarah asks.

"After that last big fight he never spoke of the circumstances of Greg's birth ever again." His mother stares down at the tissue in her hand. "I know you won't believe this, but John did love you in his own way, Greg."

"You didn't answer her question," he points out. His voice is unsteady. "You know Dad hated me, he couldn't stand having me in the same room with him!"

"You goaded him into getting angry with you," Mom says. Her eyes darken with disapproval. "Nearly every time he sent you from the dinner table or took you out back, you deserved to be disciplined!"

"'Discipline'? Is that what you call it? When you use a belt to leave bloody welts on your bastard son's thighs, on his shoulders and back and arms? When you force him to spend the night naked in the yard with frost on the ground?" The avalanche is almost upon him now. "How about when you submerge him in an ice bath once a day for an entire week because you caught him reading a cookbook and that meant he was a weak little sissy who needed toughening up? Or you make him take boxing lessons that last for hours and he comes home so bruised he can't even breathe normally because of the pain?"

Wilson is pale, his dark eyes wide with shock. Sarah says nothing, but Greg knows she understands what he endured better than the other two people in the room ever could..

"Your father did what he thought was best for you," Mom says. "You have to admit you were an incredibly difficult child, Greg. It took extreme measures to get through to you. Anyway, you're exaggerating. What John administered was proper punishment, nothing more."

"Mrs. House, you must know what Colonel House did absolutely qualifies as abuse. No child deserves that kind of treatment." Sarah is quiet but firm.

"Doctor Goldman, do you have children of your own?" Mom asks, her tone bordering on discourteous.

"No ma'am. I had a partial hysterectomy when I was fourteen." It is a simple statement of fact with no emotion attached to it. His mother blinks, her defensiveness fading.

"Oh—well, I'm sorry."

"It's all right," Sarah says, and Greg remembers her saying _His parents had someone picked out, a nice girl. Gene defied them and chose me . . . He understands what it's like to struggle with the divide between expectations and reality. _"Please continue with what you were going to say."

"I—it's not important," Mom says.

"Please," Sarah says, with a slight smile. "I'd like to hear it."

"Well--I was going to say you can't possibly understand what it's like to raise a child so—so completely willful as Greg was. He simply wouldn't _listen_."

"I listened when it seemed like someone had something worthwhile to say," Greg says. Wilson manages a slight smile, though it doesn't reach his eyes. He still looks sucker-punched by Greg's revelation. _Bet you never had anything like that happen in your house_, Greg thinks. Then he remembers Wilson's anguish over his brother Danny. All pain is relative_._

"Why am I not surprised by that statement?" Wilson says. "Nothing's changed."

"What happened when he wouldn't listen?" Sarah asks quietly.

"I would try to get him to pay attention to me, but he was some world of his own and I could never reach him." Forty-odd years later, the frustration still vibrates in her voice, in her words. "He would just walk away, or say something strange . . . for a long time I wondered if he wasn't . . . normal."

"You mean retarded," Greg says. Some part of him wants to laugh, it's just so deliciously ironic.

"And that's why Colonel House chose the methods he used," Sarah says.

"He couldn't seem to get through to Greg any other way." Mom crumples the tissue.

"How the hell would you know? You never tried anything else!" He fights the urge to shout at her but his voice grows in volume all the same. "You handed me over to him and didn't look back!"

"Gregory, please do not raise your voice to me! You know very well your father had the final say in our household. Even if I'd objected, it wouldn't have made any difference!"

"It still must have been difficult to see the results of a discipline session," Sarah says. Mom looks away and says nothing. "A sedative would certainly help dull the conflicting emotions created by the antagonism between your husband and your son, especially if you had no choice except to endure the situation."

"I had trouble sleeping when John was away," Mom says, her tone adamant. Greg knows no matter how many different routes Sarah takes to this subject, his mother will never change her reply. "There was no conflict. John was the head of the household."

"Do you remember sneaking a slice of cake into my room on the nights when Dad sent me to bed without dinner?" Greg asks. His mother gives a distant nod, obviously still distracted by Sarah's probing. "If you thought I deserved everything I got, why did you do that?" She doesn't answer. He pushes her. "Why bother? Weren't you subverting Dad's authority?"

"I . . ." She sighs a little. "Greg, if you must know, it was out of pity."

That last word sinks deep inside him. He feels the weight of it like tons of snow descending at last, smashing everything he's ever believed about his relationship with his mother, breaking all his illusions like fragile glass. She never stood guard over him, never shared small rebellions, never felt the kinship of enduring tyranny. _She really does believe I deserved it all. _

An odd sort of numbness envelops him as the avalanche falls, leaving him suspended and helpless in cold darkness, waiting for the air to run out and icy nothingness to steal him away.


	18. Chapter 18

_**(A/N: this chapter contains a somewhat graphic memory of corporal punishment and emotional abuse. If you are offended or upset by such scenes, please skip this chapter.  
**_

_**Also, my apologies to Juliabohemian, I'm not attempting to plagiarize her work; this just had to be written the way it was. If you haven't read Julia's excellent fic **_**Sixty Minutes with Dr. Nolan, **_**check it out. --B)**_

_January 29th_

_4 p.m._

Greg doesn't remember the rest of the meeting, except in vague flashes. He cannot seem to focus on what people are saying; he sees their lips moving, the concern in their eyes, but there's nothing within him that's able to respond. He is frozen in every meaning of the word.

After a time he realizes they are in the minivan and on the Northeast Extension, headed back to New York. Sarah drives in silence. He sees her in his peripheral vision. She looks tired, but she weaves in and out of rush hour traffic with the ease of long practice. The heater is blowing warm air now. Greg closes his eyes and leans his head against the rest to drift into a troubled half-doze.

_(He is in his bedroom, bent over with palms pressed to the mattress, trying to catch his breath. The pain is beginning to subside a bit now; he can concentrate on what his father is saying, something he'd better do quickly if he doesn't want another ten. _

"_Your mother said the principal called and told her you stole something from the girls locker room last week, is that true?"_

_He takes a deep breath. With his peripheral vision he can see Dad standing to the side. The belt dangles from his hand, waiting. " . . . yeah."_

"_The correct response is 'yes sir' or 'no sir' as you should know by now, mister I'm-so-smart. Now let me ask you again. Did you steal that girl's underwear?"_

_He struggles to make his tone more humble, despising the necessity. "Yessir."_

_Dad gives a humorless little bark of laughter. "Guess I oughta be thankful it's girls panties and not some guy's tidy whities."_

"_I'm not a queer! I—" He sees his father's smirk and stops. The cold lump of hate inside him grows a little larger. "Yessir."_

"_Your mother also said she caught you doing something with those panties. What was it?"_

_He feels the unwelcome burn of a blush heating his face. "I . . ."_

"_Please tell me you weren't _wearing_ them!"_

_The overdone anguish in Dad's voice angers him. "__No__ sir."_

"_Then _what_?"_

"_I . . . I was . . ."_

"_Well?"_

"_I was--was r-rubbing myself on-on them." He hears the uncertainty in his words and winces. It will signal his father that this is a sore spot. That's never a good thing._

"_Rubbing yourself."_

"_Yessir." He sighs silently. _

"_In other words, you were jerking off into a pair of girl's panties."_

" _. . . yessir." _Here we go.

"_For chrissake, Greg! What the hell is wrong with you? Do you want to get suspended again for this stupid shit you keep pulling?"_

_He can't stop a quick flare of anger. "I don't _care_—"_

"_WRONG answer! Wrong answer, you idiot! You ain't got the brains God gave a damn goose! The correct answer is 'yes sir, I _do_ care about being suspended from junior high AGAIN for pulling the dumbest stunt in existence!' Now say it!"_

"_I . . ."_

"_Say it or you'll get another ten with the buckle end this time, do I make myself clear?"_

_The threat stops him dead because he knows it isn't an idle one. He also remembers the last time he got the buckle. In fact, he'll never forget it. "Y-yessir, I do care about . . . being s-suspended . . ."_

"_Finish it!" _

"_F-from j-junior high again--for pulling the d-dumbest stunt in-in existence—" He struggles to keep the tears from thickening his voice but it's hopeless._

"_SIR!" Dad's shout makes him jump._

"_Dad--I'm—I'm s-s-sorry—" _Please don't hit me again . . . please.

"_SAY IT!"_

"_S-s-s-sir . . ."_

"_Suh-suh-suh-SIIIIIIR! Jesus! You can't even get the words out right, you damn whiny little pussy!" Dad sounds utterly disgusted, as usual. "Now here's what you're gonna do, and you'd better listen up good because I'm not gonna tell you twice. For the next week you're gonna wear those panties. You'll wear 'em exactly the way they are now, with your jizz all over 'em. They don't go into the trash until the end of the week. You're going to demonstrate to me three times a day, every day, that you're wearing your special little girly panties by standing in the living room, pulling your jeans down to your ankles and turning in a circle three times. At the end of the week you will purchase a new pair out of your allowance and present them along with an apology to the girl whose underwear you stole. Also, starting right now you're grounded for a month. No TV, no music, no books, and double chores."_

_The enormity of this punishment falls on him like a load of bricks. _No music . . . he can't do that! I have to practice, I have a recital in three days! _"Dad . . . __please__—"_

"_The _only_ answer you're gonna give me is 'yes sir'!"_

_He has no choice if he doesn't want things to get worse. "Y-yessir."_

"_You know what your problem is?" _

_Here comes The Lecture. He knows it word for word by now and loathes every syllable. _

"_You don't know how good you've got it. Plenty of kids would be happy to be in your shoes. You have a roof over your head, three meals a day, clothes on your back, a chance to educate yourself. That doesn't even take into account the people who have to put up with the endless amount of trouble you cause."_

"_Yessir."_ Go find some other kid to be your son then. I'd be happy to walk out the door right now and never look back.

"_I'm glad you agree. Now stop blubbering and pull up your pants. You only got ten half-assed little smacks for all the other trouble you've caused. My old man would have laughed his balls off at what passes for discipline in this household."_

"_Y-y-yessir."_

"'_Yuh-yuh-yessir'! Fuckin' A, Greg! You're such a damn disappointment to me and your mother. I want you to stop being a disappointment, do you understand?"_

How do I do that? Would someone please tell me? I've tried and nothing seems to work. _"Yessir."_

"_Good. Now get me a cold beer and go mow the lawn. Do it right or we'll have another little talk, do I make myself clear?"_

Yeah, you're loud and clear all right._ " . . . yessir.")_

"Greg." Sarah's voice touches the last of his memory, pushing it into the darkness at the back of his mind. "I'm stopping to fill up the tank. Do you need anything?"

"Water," he says. He's so dry he can hardly speak—a side effect of the Vicodin wearing off, and maybe something else; maybe shock. He isn't sure.

"Are you hungry?"

He shakes his head. She withdraws. He tips his head back and closes his eyes, feeling the van move slightly as she pumps the gas. After a while she comes back with a sack in one hand. It smells delicious. His stomach rumbles into life and he sits up as she offers him the bag.

"I couldn't resist," Sarah says. He pulls out a plain cake doughnut and takes a small bite. It's delicious, warm and fragrant with vanilla and butter and mild spice.

"I said I wasn't hungry," he says.

"You haven't eaten since last night. I was worried," she says. "Got a bottle of water too."

Soon enough they're on their way once more. He finishes the first doughnut, munches another and sips the water. Slowly the modest meal settles and he feels better, not quite so cold.

After a while Sarah puts a CD in the player. He can't quite make out what it is, but it's bluesy, soft and low.

"You'll fall asleep," he says.

"I'm fine." She glances at him. "We're about four hours from home."

She doesn't suggest he talk, and for that he is grateful. He turns his head to look out the window at the darkness rushing by.

_January 30th_

It is just after midnight when they pull into the drive. He stirs as Sarah brings the van around to the front step, puts it in park and shuts off the engine.

"Home again, home again, jiggety jig," she says, and offers him a weary smile. "Don't know about you, but I'm sleepin' in."

He should feel good about returning to what has become a true sanctuary for him, but all he can do is go into his room and shut the door behind him. He fumbles his way to the bed and sits down, surrounded by darkness. After a moment the hot-air vent comes to life with a muted roar, a familiar white-noise sound. He reaches out and turns on the light. Everything looks the same as always—messy, lived-in, comfortable, his.

Eventually he peels off his clothes, puts on his robe, and limps to the bathroom. He takes a long hot shower, brushes his teeth. When he returns to his room he slips on a clean tee shirt and flannel pajama bottoms. He goes to his duffel and opens it, retrieves the Vicodin and puts the bottle in his pocket, then tugs the socks on his feet and heads out into the living room.

He takes his time building a fire in the fireplace, making sure it's perfect: the kindling piled properly to get the crossed logs hot enough to burn. Then he sets the damper, goes to the couch and sits down slowly, watching the flames. After a while he reaches into his pocket and takes out the bottle. He pops the top with his thumb and shakes tabs into his palm, stares down at them, shakes out a few more. He brings his hand to his mouth, swallowing them two at a time until they're gone. He puts the empty bottle back in his pocket and lies down on the couch. The last thing he sees is light flickering, gold and scarlet in the gathering darkness.


	19. Chapter 19

_January 30__th_

_1:30 a.m._

" . . . _Greg__!_"

He hears a voice but it's coming from far away.

Now someone is shaking him. He frowns, wanting whoever it is to leave him alone.

"_Greg!_ Answer me, dammit!"

He has no intention of saying anything, but they're shaking him harder now and it's annoying as hell.

"S . . . . st. . . op," he tries to say.

"_Gregory House!_ _YOU ANSWER ME RIGHT NOW!_"

He is hauled to his feet. His head spins and he starts to collapse, to be caught by wiry slender arms.

"Oh no you don't! Y'all are NOT crapping out on me, goddammit!"

He is half-marched, half-dragged over carpeted floor onto cold tiles—the bathroom. He tries to fight as he is lowered down, left alone and floating for a moment, but he's too disoriented to do more than some ineffectual flailing around.

Something touches his lips as his head is lifted up. It's the rim of a mug. "Drink it!" Sarah says; he knows it's her now. She sounds angry and he flinches away from her. He takes a mouthful of something and tries to spit it out, it's hot salty water.

"Dammit! _Drink it_, Greg! Do it!"

Small fingers pinch his nose shut tight. He struggles to pull away and gasps for air, and is forced to swallow a huge gulp of the water. He gags and splutters as his stomach gives a warning heave. He tries to sit up, scrabbling for purchase, and fights as more water is dumped into him. Sweat beads his upper lip as a chill goes down his spine and saliva pools in his mouth. This isn't going to be pretty.

The contraction hits hard and sharp. He vomits, catches a glimpse of barely-dissolved tabs before he pukes again. He has the insane urge to reach into the toilet and grab the pills. After the fifth spasm he becomes aware someone is holding him upright. He is shaking, his stomach giving small quivers, threatening to continue the process, but gradually the urge to upchuck settles into dull nausea.

And then he is walking again—stumbling, actually. There is an arm about his waist. "Where's the rest of the stash?" He is settled onto a soft surface, lying on his side. "Come on, Greg. Tell me where it is. I'll search every damn inch of you if I have to, and your room too." Sarah sounds stern, unrelenting.

"Pocket," he mumbles. He feels her rummage around and tug the bottle free. He closes his eyes, humiliated and ashamed.

"How many were in here? Thirty? Sixty?"

"Thirty," he says, and groans as the lids on his eyes are pried open and a bright light fills his vision. After a moment fingers press into his neck.

"How many did you take?"

" . . . ten."

"So you've been using for a while. Thought so." She doesn't sound triumphant, only resigned. "Anyway, we got them all out. I counted."

His head is already starting to clear a bit, something he doesn't want. He wants numbness, nothingness, never to feel anything ever again, and he'd been on his way there. Now he's waking up, and it hurts like hell.

"Listen to me," Sarah says a few moments later. "Your pupils are a little dilated but responsive and your pulse and breathing rate are a bit sluggish but okay. Do you understand? I can get you to the medical center in five minutes if necessary, but I think you'll be all right now." He feels her weight settle in next to him. "Here, sit up a little."

Greg struggles to obey and she helps him. He moves his bad leg to prevent a spasm and finds he is stretched out on the couch.

"Okay, lie down," Sarah says quietly. When he does so he realizes his head is in her lap on a pillow. _This is weird,_ he thinks, but he doesn't pull away or sit up because it feels good to have contact with someone, to feel the warmth of a body close to his.

"Are you all right? No dizziness or nausea?"

"'mokay." _Here it comes,_ he thinks. An interrogation will be first on the agenda, followed by scolding, lectures, remonstrations about all the trouble he's caused. _For chrissake, Greg!_ he hears his father say, and trembles inside at what's ahead.

"If you want to, you can tell me what happened," Sarah says. Her voice is calm, no anger, no resentment. He waits for the rest of it but she says nothing more. Slowly he begins to understand she is doing what she always does, listening—really listening. He doesn't know if he can handle that. Part of him wants to remain silent forever, another part doesn't. But the words are stuck in his chest in a huge knot anyway, and he's afraid if he starts to talk he'll end up screaming instead.

"It's all right. Take your time." Her soft tone eases his exhausted mind, an unearned benison. He tries to close himself to her compassion but there is no fight left in him now, no strength to put up barriers. And then to his utter horror, without warning the knot gives way and pain comes boiling up, the very thing he has dreaded since entering Mayfield months ago. Greg buries his face in Sarah's soft flannel bathrobe, pressing into her belly. He clenches his teeth hard to hold in the first sob but it breaks free anyway, a harsh, loud groan that fills him with shame and disgust at his weakness. Another follows, and another until he is engulfed in agony, his body shaking as if it will fly apart. When Sarah slips her arm about his shoulders and gently brings him closer he resists, trying to pull away, but she holds him in place and after a few moments, he gives up. He lets the tears gush out, knowing he is everything his father always called him: weak, pathetic, useless.

For what seems like an eternity he is racked by absolute anguish, making ugly, raw noises he cannot bear to hear. They escape despite his efforts to force them back inside. He shudders as fresh waves of rage and grief batter his body. It is like being trapped in a terrible storm, flung about by the fury of the winds and water. He can't seem to stop, though once or twice he tries, frightened by the intensity of the emotions roaring out of him. Sarah is the only fixed point in his universe now, the only solid reality in the midst of overwhelming pain.

After a very long time the despair ebbs, then diminishes. Gradually he becomes aware of a small hand, light but sure, rubbing his back in slow, gentle circles through the thin material of his tee shirt. A part of him wants to smack the hand away, until it dawns on him: he is being offered comfort.

_So this is what it feels like,_ he thinks. It's nothing resembling the perfunctory hugs, air kisses or hand-patting he's seen or endured at funerals and other social rituals. There is purpose behind it, not false sentiment or empty display. _Intent shapes action, _Sarah had said once. Now he understands what she means.

A memory comes back to him of his time in the hospital after the shooting, and subsequent ketamine treatment. A CNA on the night shift had given him this same sort of attention. She'd been the one to help him sit up and drink enough juice to take his meds, emptied his Foley and assisted with sponge baths. She'd stuck with him no matter how much he'd snarled at her, patient, silent, compassionate. That was comfort too.

He falls quiet, with only the occasional hitch in his breathing. The rhythm of Sarah's touch soothes him, eases the misery wedged deep in his heart and mind. He is grateful for her generous spirit, and for her willingness to endure him.

After a time she shifts her position. He burrows closer, asking wordlessly for her not to push him away. He cannot bear the idea of being alone, not yet. There will be plenty of time for that later.

"Shhh . . ." She puts a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere, Greg. Just pulling down the blanket."

A few moments later he feels the soft throw settle over him, smells lavender laundry soap and wood smoke and relaxes as warmth steals through his body.

"Thank you," he whispers.

"You're welcome," she says quietly, and he slides into exhausted sleep.

[H] [H] [H]

Sarah slipped a pillow behind her back and tried to ignore the pressure in her bladder. She could probably risk a quick trip to the bathroom; Greg was deeply asleep, a residual effect of the Vicodin overdose and emotional trauma. But if he woke and she wasn't there . . . She could handle this for a few more hours. She put her hand on Greg's back and was reassured to feel his slow, even breathing.

_Thank god I came down to check on him. Now I have to find out where he got the damn drugs. If he had this squirreled away in something that came up from storage, or he brought it with him . . . I'll have to search his room. And the downstairs bathroom, and the office. His old apartment will need to be checked again too. Jim said it was searched pretty thoroughly at least twice, but . . . Guess I'll have to do it. It takes an addict to know where all the real hiding places are. _She sighed softly and closed her eyes, exhaustion beginning to take over from her earlier massive jolt of fear. _God, that was close. _She didn't think this was a serious attempt at suicide, more a bid to recreate the numbness of not remembering. Still, if she'd been even fifteen minutes later . . .

_I should have taken him to the medical center, but then he'd be written up as an OD and that would screw with his chances to get the surgery and regain his license. At least this way the incident will exist officially only in my case notes. We can deal with any committees or inquiries when we come to them. _She tipped her head back against the couch cushion and let the need for sleep take over at last. _I wish Gene was here _was her last coherent thought.


	20. Chapter 20

_**(A/N: this chapter contains paragraphs with somewhat graphic descriptions of abuse, among other things. If such passages upset or distress you, skip this entry. --B) **_

_January 31__st_

_7:30 a.m._

He wakes slowly, confused. He is curled on his side, his ruined leg complaining at being forced into one position too long. Something soft cradles his head and upper body; there is a slender arm about his shoulders.

"How are you?" Sarah asks. She gives him a gentle hug and moves a little so he can sit up. He does so and finds he's lightheaded, his face and eyes swollen. Sarah examines him with a few deft touches, then tucks the blanket around him.

"I'll be back in a few minutes," she says. "If you need me, call. I'm here, okay?" There is no condescension in her voice, just a simple statement of fact. Greg shivers as the cool air of the living room brushes his skin when he shifts to let Sarah stand. He knows a stab of fear when she leaves his line of sight. What if she disappears and never comes back?

"I'm right here," her soft voice reaches him, and he relaxes.

For a long time he listens to Sarah moving around the house. He feels strange—hollow, as if his insides have been removed. A great weariness is seeping into his body, making him numb. He welcomes it, knowing it won't last, much as he wants it to.

When Sarah returns she has a tray with two steaming cups, some toast and what appears to be a folded washcloth. She sets the tray on the coffee table and picks up the cloth, then hands it to him.

"Wash your face," she says.

"I'm not three years old," he mutters, but he takes it and does as she says, the wet rough fabric smelling faintly of soap. Afterward he does feel a little better. When he's done she offers him one of the cups. It turns out to be hot sweet tea. It tastes delicious and eases the cramp in his stomach.

"What . . ." His voice is rough and gravelly, his throat sore. "What was that other crap you made me drink?"

"Baking soda in hot water," she says. "If you want more tea I'll get the pot."

A few sips are enough, however. He refuses the toast; the thought of food is too much at the moment. Sarah replaces the plate on the tray, pulls the pillow in her lap and pats it.

"Put your head down," she says. He stares at the pillow, longing to do as she asks and afraid at the same time. "It's all right, Greg."

Slowly he obeys her. When the blanket is settled over him once more he watches her, he can't help it. He has to know what her motive is in doing this. What does she want? Sarah looks down at him. There is no pity or cloying maternal light in her eyes, only that quiet understanding he has come to know and depend on. Her fingers touch his neck—taking his pulse, he realizes. Then her hand rests on the join of his neck and shoulder. Her palm is warm and dry. He reaches up and clasps her wrist, automatically noting her heartbeat is steady and strong. He slowly pushes up the sleeve of her bathrobe, revealing the cartouche tattoo and some of the scars she keeps hidden. He studies them, knowing they are the visible reminder of terrible moments in her life, of pain and despair and helplessness, and her will to redeem herself from those memories.

"How did it happen?" he asks. She looks at him, assessing him, deciding if he can handle it. Apparently he can.

"I was eleven," she says at last. "It was a bad summer. My cousin was making nocturnal visits to my bedroom a couple of times a week and my parents were trying to kill each other, when they weren't drunk or stoned or stealing money from someone. I was stuck in the middle of it, with no way to escape. My brothers were out of the house by then, but they wouldn't have helped me anyway. So I started cutting. It took the edge off things." She pauses. "My dad caught me on the back porch. I was sitting in the sun, at least I remember the sun on my face. I was probably high, usually was at that age, just took whatever I could find or steal. Never got drunk, though. That I wouldn't do. Didn't have the taste for it." She is silent for a moment, her gaze distant and cool. "I had an exacto knife. It was a good tool—nice and sharp, clean edge, made it easy to control how deep the cuts were. I was pretty much a wimp about going into the muscle. Mostly did skin layers, just enough to bleed a little. I even had some rubbing alcohol. It stung like hell and that helped gate the pain too."

Greg senses a residual sorrow in her for the memories she is reciting, but there is no anger, no bitterness. _How can she be so accepting?_ he wonders. _How can she live with this? _"You took drugs," he says aloud.

"Yes," she says. "I'm an addict. Clean for thirty years, but that could change tomorrow.

"Anyway, Dad couldn't help but see me because I was parked by the screen door and the beer fridge was right there. I wanted to get caught, more than likely. God knows why, I knew what would happen if Dad ever discovered what I was doing. It was probably the start of my out-and-out rebellious phase, though that didn't kick into high gear until a couple of years later. At any rate, he dragged me into the kitchen and made me sit at the table with my arm stretched out. He said I couldn't cut hot butter, so he'd give me a demonstration on how to do things right and proper. Then he found a steak knife. He got mad because I fought and made him go too deep." She pauses. "At the ER, he told them I ran into a glass door."

"No doctor in their right mind would believe that story," Greg says. He is struggling with the image of a young girl in horrible pain, covered with blood and terrified, listening to her father lie to the people who were supposed to help her. Sarah shrugs a little.

"Things were different back then. And it was a rural hospital. I'm sure the staff saw plenty of chronic abuse and domestic violence cases. The only thing they could do was patch people up and send them back into a bad situation. It's better not to care when you can't do anything to stop whatever's going on."

He feels his own memories clamoring to rise to the surface and battles against them.

"Greg," she says softly. "If you want to talk, I'm listening."

He fights to focus, to push everything away or down or out of his mind but it's not working, he's broken that old coping mechanism beyond repair, at least for the moment.

"It's all right," she says. "Take your time."

He shifts onto his side, this time facing away from her, lowers her arm and folds it across his chest, feeling the twisted ridges of her scars through his tee shirt. Her hand clasps his and gently brings him close. It makes him feel safe—utterly ridiculous, but true all the same.

Within the protective circle of her embrace he tries hard not to think about what's happened, but it breaks into his mind anyway. It goes on and on, an endless vision of his miserable, dismal childhood and youth, and how he knows now his mother was not an ally.

"What's wrong with me?" he asks finally, after what seems like hours. His head throbs and his eyes are hot and itchy. "No one . . . people can't stand being around someone like me." He hears his father, a faint echo in his memory: _you're a damn disappointment, Greg_. "I don't know why you bother." Even as he says it he holds her tightly, afraid she will push him away.

"You have people who love you," Sarah says. "They just don't know how to do it unconditionally." She settles in and brings him a little closer. "You're worth loving, Greg."

"I'm a pathetic asshole," he says. "I've been that way since birth."

"You were born an innocent baby like everyone else," she says. "Your mind works differently, and your parents didn't understand that. The people around you, they don't get it either. You don't fit their idea of normal."

"I treat people like shit," he says.

"Well, you aren't one to bother with niceties, that's true." He hears the smile in her voice and flinches.

"It's not a joke!" He is appalled to hear himself growling at her.

"No, it's not." Her body heat radiates into him and warms his cold insides; her scars give him a strange sense of presence, of realness. She doesn't sound upset, nor does she tense up or let go of him. "I'm not mocking you. You're who you are, Gregory, just like everyone else. And I know you are worth loving."

He is silent, unable to believe her.

"Why do you think I offered to work with you after Mayfield let me go?" Her free hand comes to rest just above his forehead with the lightest of touches, and he is surprised to find that simple act eases his anxiety. He doesn't answer her, though. "I came back because I know some part of you wants out of the endless misery. I don't want to change you, Greg, or fix you. But you need to get out of your own way. I said it before, and it still stands. I'd like to see you find some peace. You deserve it. You're worth it."

"You think if you keep saying that it'll make it true," he mutters.

"I already know it's true. Convincing you is the hard part, son." She's smiling again. The affection in her voice is genuine. After everything he's done to her, she is still willing to take him on.

"You're a moron." He closes his eyes. A tear manages to escape and makes a slow path down his cheek. He can't believe he's got any tears left.

"Sometimes, yeah. But not about this."

He gives a soft, juddering sigh as something inside assents, just a bit, to her reassurance.

"What's going to happen now?" he asks after a long time.

"You'll start remembering things," she says. "Things you've pushed deep down inside."

"I . . . I can't." He shakes at the thought. "I can't."

"Yes you can," she says. "You can tell me. I'm here to listen, anytime, anywhere."

"It isn't that," he says, trying to find the words. "I . . . _can't_."

"Who told you not to tell? Who told you to forget?" Sarah asks after a moment, and he relaxes a little more. Of course she understands.

"Everyone," he says.

"How?" she asks, and he finds himself describing the moments after discipline sessions when his father would push him up against a wall in a chokehold and whisper in his ear, warning him of what would surely happen if he ever spoke of his disgrace to anyone else, if he ever dared to humiliate the family by talking openly about his well-deserved punishments. He tells her of the times when his mother would leave the room and not look back, when she would deny the bruises on his legs or arms or his face, or turn his pain into a joke—everything he accused her of at the meeting. And he remembers but doesn't speak of the moments in casual conversation when he would say something a little too close to the truth and Wilson or Cuddy or Stacy would shy away, their body language practically shouting _I don't want to know!_ Remembering brings back the frustration, the humiliation and fury and fear. He is trembling when he finishes.

"I can't talk about it," he says.

"Yes you can," Sarah says. "You've already started, Greg. I can show you how to keep going."

"It's pointless," he says. "Bringing up this garbage—all it does is make things worse."

"It's not pointless," she says. "You feel rough for a while when you start to remember, but it gets better. Telling frees you."

"If that's true, then you tell me something from the bad times that you've never told anyone else," he says after a while. The clenching in his stomach starts again. "Prove it to me."

Sarah doesn't speak for a few moments. When she does, her voice sounds different—less calm, more hesitant. "I mentioned the partial hysterectomy at the meeting. That isn't the whole story. I've never told anyone that at the age of fourteen, I got pregnant."

He is silent, not knowing what to say.

"I went to a free clinic and told the doctor I was having trouble with my period. She examined me, gave me a scrip for vitamins and asked me to make an appointment for prenatal classes."

"You had the baby," he says.

"No. I . . . I tried to get rid of it." Her voice thickens. When he looks at her, there are tears in her eyes. He can see now she is utterly exhausted, her face pale with weariness. A pang of guilt goes through him at his selfishness, but he still asks for more from her.

"How?"

"I drank some herbal tea. It worked, but not completely. I ended up in the ER half-dead from blood loss and shock . . . stupid girl. Stupid, arrogant, unthinking girl." She stops to wipe her cheeks as the tears spill over. Her hand is shaking. "It was early enough in the pregnancy that no one really knew what was going on. One of the nurses probably suspected because she kept giving me strange looks, but she didn't say anything. When the doctors told me I needed a hysterectomy, I couldn't agree fast enough."

"An adult had to authorize the surgical procedure," he says.

"My cousin's wife brought me in, of all people." She gives a watery snort. "The ironies of life. Her husband banged me for years and she was the one who got me the surgery."

"Did she know?" he asks. Sarah nods.

"Yes, but it was easier for her to pretend she didn't. It was selfish, but also very human."

"How can you say that?" He cannot contain his outrage, his own pain forgotten for the moment. "Your family tore you to shreds, literally! Besides the damn scars—you had a piece of yourself removed that took away your choice to have a family—there's no accepting that!"

"I didn't accept it," she says. "It's been a secret all this time." A fresh tear falls down her cheek, followed by another. "There hasn't been a day when I haven't thought of that child and the . . . the terrible thing I did." He can barely hear her now. "I killed my own baby."

He makes an impatient noise and takes her hand in a clumsy grip. "It wasn't a baby. It probably wasn't much more than a clump of cells. You were a scared, traumatized kid. You did what you thought you had to."

"I just wanted out of it all with no inconvenience to me." There is such sadness in her voice. "Selfish little bitch."

"Stop it," he says, his words harsh. "You were afraid. Fear makes people do stupid things. I can vouch for that fact personally. You make allowances for everyone but you when you were just being human too, if that's how you want to look at it."

Her hand tightens on his. He watches her struggle with what she remembers and what he's said. After a long while she says, "Thank you for asking me to tell you about this. Thanks for listening too, and talking with me. It means a lot." She sounds calmer.

"I won't tell anyone else," he says.

"It's okay," she says. "It's not a secret now. I'm glad it isn't."

He lies in the haven of warmth and security she has provided, and thinks about what she's said. He's not sure he can ever be free in the way she's showing him, but he'd like to try.

"I don't want to hurt anymore," he says after a long silence.

"Then that's where we'll start."


	21. epilogue

_**(A/N: in chapter 20 I mistakenly wrote the date as January 31st. It should have been January 30th. It's been a long day for both Sarah and House but not that long! --B)**_

_January 30__th_

_4 p.m._

She had to search his room, of course. It was the one unspoken exception to the 'no exceptions' privacy rule. Greg was fully aware of this, if his hunched shoulders and stoic expression were anything to go by.

He sat in the doorway on a kitchen chair and watched as she proceeded with a methodical thoroughness that would make any DEA agent proud. Sarah was careful not to be thoughtless or callous. She treated his things with respect, put items back where she found them, and resisted the urge to change his sheets, collect dirty clothes or gather up used cups, plates and silverware.

"No room service?" Greg said when it was clear she'd finished. She tucked a stray curl behind her ear, tired to the bone. It felt like a lifetime had passed since she'd actually gotten anything resembling real sleep.

"I charge extra for laundry. Tableware is negotiable. No lap dances though."

He rolled his eyes. "What's next on the list?"

"Bathroom and then office," she said. As he started to stand she caught the defensive, guilty glance he shot her way. "Wait a minute," she said. "My apologies. Please sit down."

Greg froze. Then he obeyed, grimacing as his leg protested the movement. Sarah perched on the edge of his easy chair, making sure she wasn't facing him head-on.

"I want you to understand what's going on here," she said. He wouldn't look at her, arms folded tight over his chest. "This is not a punishment."

"Could have fooled me," he muttered.

"Your overdose was a response to being pushed too far too fast. It was part of a relapse. They happen." He did lift his gaze to hers then, his red-rimmed eyes sharp with disbelief. He looked as exhausted as she felt; she noticed (not for the first time) that his features were thinner, almost gaunt. He'd lost weight in the last few days.

"So it was just a little boo-boo," he said, his voice harsh.

"You were trying to get away from the pain," she said.

"If everything's so logical, then why are you treating me like a criminal?" he snapped.

"Am I?" she said. "What makes you think that?"

Greg looked away. "I get it. All that nauseating cuddling was just to soften me up for this exercise in humiliation." He was openly scathing now. Sarah kept her body language relaxed.

_He deflected. No surprises there._ "Searching these rooms is necessary," she said quietly. "I trust you. I do," she said when he snorted and shook his head. "Implicitly."

"Then why go through this damn pointless dog and pony show?" He almost spat the words at her.

"I trust _you_." She smiled a little. "The addiction, that's a different story."

He frowned. "That makes no sense."

"Addiction is a disease, in some cases probably a genetic predisposition. It's like having MS or asthma. There are certain symptoms that accompany the condition, one of which is hiding drugs or alcohol or whatever. We're treating the symptom." She paused. "You suffer from an illness, Greg. Don't make it more than that."

He considered her words, his expression blank, but she could almost hear his mind whirring as he dissected and analyzed her observation.

"How long?" he said after a while. Sarah let go a held breath.

"Thirty days," she said. "I'll have to administer all medications and there will be continued searches, but you have my promise," she said when he groaned, "you will never have to beg for your meds, ever. If you need help with breakthrough pain, tell me. I know the difference between addiction and dependence and I know your pain is real. The searches will be private, never when anyone else is here."

"What if I say I need something right now?" It was half-defiant, half-something else.

"Okay," she said. "As long as you eat some dinner too. No meds on an empty stomach."

"You've still got two more rooms to do," he reminded her.

"They can wait." She stretched and stood up. "Let's see what we can pull out of the fridge."

She found a big container of leftover chicken soup and some rolls. While everything was heating she offered Greg his pregabalin and high-dose ibuprofen. When she handed him the bottles he glanced at her, his surprise plain.

"I have to watch," she said, "but you can do the heavy lifting yourself." He accepted them with ill grace but beyond grumbling under his breath he didn't give her a hard time. She kept her own attitude matter of fact and had the satisfaction of seeing him relax a bit.

Soup was the right choice. Sarah dunked her roll in the savory broth, enjoying the simple meal. Greg ate without enthusiasm, but he managed most of a bowlful before he put down his spoon. He looked a little better now though, some of the tension leaving him as the meds and hot food did their work.

She had him sit in the doorway again as she began with the bathroom.

"Keeping me where you can see me," he said with considerable sarcasm. Sarah straightened and wiped sweat from her forehead.

"Yes," she said. "But you're also here to make sure I don't mess around with your stuff."

That seemed to disconcert him. He played with his cane, let the rubber slip-guarded end give the tiles a series of soft thumps.

"You . . . you wouldn't do that," he said to the floor. Sarah schooled her features to impassivity, but inside she was jumping up and down and shouting _YES YES __YES__! __FINALLY__!_

"I wouldn't," she agreed. "But you still have the right to keep an eye on me." She crouched under the sink, running her fingers along the basin inset seam, struggling not to giggle like a crazy woman.

"What are you smiling about?" Greg sounded wary.

"Nothing under here," she said, and began moving bottles of cleanser.

The office took a great deal longer to go through. By the time she'd finished his books it was close to eleven and she wanted nothing more than to crawl off somewhere and sleep forever. Greg watched her, taking in every move as she replaced reference texts and bound journals with care. When she sat at his desk he averted his gaze. She understood; this was his private domain, a sacred space for someone who defined himself solely by his ability to produce flawless work. She opened the first drawer, felt along the underside of the desktop, and frowned. Something slid under her fingertips. She grasped whatever it was and gave a gentle tug. A paper, discolored and stained, came loose to lie in her hand. Not just one—it appeared to be several envelopes with faded writing on them, all tied together with a thin, faded ribbon.

"What's this?" She examined the scant bundle. "These look like letters. Greg, I apologize—if you had something personal tucked away . . ."

He lifted his head and looked at her, frowning a bit. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sarah brought them over to him. He examined the papers with care, then handed them back to her. "Not mine."

She didn't take them. "They are now."

He glanced up at her, surprise mingled with annoyance. "Why?"

"Why not?" She smiled a little. "I'll bet anything there's an interesting reason behind their being hidden away, and you're the person to discover it."

He stared at the papers for a moment. Then without further comment he set them in his lap. Sarah turned back to her work.

It was well after one when she unfolded the last carpet corner and pushed it into place, sat back on her haunches, scraped a hand over her unruly curls and let out a deep sigh. "Done," she said. There was no answer. She pivoted a little to look at the doorway. Greg was out cold, his head propped against the doorjamb. Sarah studied him; he so rarely gave her a chance to see him with his defenses down, she couldn't resist. Even relaxed in sleep his features held a resigned sadness that made her heart ache. She remembered him desolate and devastated, huddled tightly against her, shaking as he wept in wild bursts that clearly frightened him. He'd been so hungry for her comfort and yet unable to ask for or even believe he deserved it . . . With reluctance she rejected an urge to dig up John House's corpse and feed it to a wood chipper and got to her feet, using the desk as leverage. The wood creaked as she leaned on it and Greg was awake in an instant, his bright blue gaze pinning her with startled intensity.

"Done," she said again, and yawned. "I'm really sleepin' in this time. See you in the morning." As he got up to let her out of the room she said with just the right amount of casual innocence, "By the way, you can search upstairs tomorrow. I'll sleep on the couch tonight. I brought down everything I need, and you can check that as well before you go to bed."

Greg stared at her. "You . . . want _me_ to do a drug check on _you_," he said slowly.

"I'm an addict too," she reminded him.

"How do you know I won't pocket whatever I find?" He smirked. "I could go up there tonight while you're sleeping."

"I get to watch you," she said. "Same as you did with me. If you go up there unsupervised, that means I have to search your rooms all over again in the morning." She sighed. "I really hope you're not serious."

"This is _nuts_," he said, his tone incredulous. "It would be easier just to send me back to Mayfield."

"There's a method to my madness." She got to her feet with a groan as cramped muscles protested. "Okay, that's it. Off to bed."

A short while later she sat on the couch in her flannel pjs and bathrobe, teetering between amusement and exhausted irritation. She was too tired to fall asleep. With a sigh she got up and went to the corner cabinet where her guitar was stored.

[H] [H] [H]

He is just starting to drift off when he hears music coming from the living room. Sarah is playing the Martin six-string, strumming soft chords. They sound sad and tender at the same time. After a moment he recognizes the melody, an old folk lullaby.

Annoyance fills him, but only for a moment. Something deep inside whispers that she's not playing it for anyone living. This is for her lost child, the baby she had for such a brief time, the only baby she'll ever have. As the song continues he hears his mother saying _I learned to love you . . . we kept each other company. _

_Two examples of the inevitable fallout from the divide between expectations and reality,_ he thinks. He slips into sleep accompanied by the sound of Sarah's grief struggling to become acceptance, and a quiet, unspoken request for forgiveness that will never be answered.

_**(This is the end of January Thaw, but not of the larger story. The next fic in the Treatment series is on its way. The title of the new story is Voices Carry. I should have the first chapter ready to post in a few days. Hope to see you reading and reviewing the new work :) --B)**_


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